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ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

(Photograph  by  Barraud) 


THE  POEMS  OF 


ALFRED 

LORD  TENNYSON 

WITH 

INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY 

EUGENE  PARSONS 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1897  and  1900 
By  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  & Co. 


INTRODUCTION. 


I 


LIFE  OF  TENNYSON. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  Aug.  6,  1809,  in  Somersby,  a wooded  hamlet 
f Lincolnshire,  England.  “The  native  village  of  Tennyson,”  says  Howitt, 
ho  visited  the  place  not  long  after  the  Tennysons  left  it,  “ is  not  situated  in 
le  fens,  but  in  a pretty  pastoral  district  of  softly  sloping  hills  and  large  ash- 
ees.  It  is  not  based  on  bogs,  but  on  a clean  sandstone.  There  is  a little  glen 
l the  neighborhood,  called  by  the  old  monkish  name  of  Holywell.” 

Here  he  was  brought  up  amid  the  lovely  idyllic  scenes  which  he  made  famous 
1 the  “ Ode  to  Memory  ” and  other  poems.  The  picturesque  “ Glen,”  with  its 
ngled  underwood  and  purling  brook,  was  a favorite  haunt  of  the  poet  in  child- 
x>d.  On  one  of  the  stones  in  this  ravine  he  inscribed  the  words,  Byron  is 
EAD,  ere  he  was  fifteen. 

Alfred  was  the  fourth  son  of  the  Rev.  George  Clayton  Tennyson,  LL.D., 
ctor  of  Somersby  (1807-1831),  also  rector  of  Benniworth  and  Bag  Enderby, 
id  vicar  of  Grimsby  (1815).  Dr.  Tennyson  was  the  eldest  son  of  George 
ennyson  (17 5°— 1 ^35 ) » who  belonged  to  the  Lincolnshire  gentry  as  the  owner 
Bayons  Manor  and  Usselby  Hall.  He  was  graduated  at  St.  John’s  College, 
imbridge,  in  1801,  and  received  the  degree  of  M.A.  in  1805.  The  poet’s 
ther  (1778-1831)  was  a man  of  superior  abilities  and  varied  attainments,  who 
ied  his  hand  with  fair  success  at  architecture,  painting,  music,  and  poetry. 

Mrs.  Tennyson  (1781-1865)  was  a pious  woman  of  many  admirable  qualities, 
id  characterized  by  an  especially  sensitive  nature.  From  his  sweet,  gentle 
other  the  poet  inherited  his  refined,  shrinking  nature.  She  was  the  daughter 
Stephen  Fytche  (1734-1799),  vicar  of  Louth  (1764)  and  rector  of  Withcall 
780),  a small  village  between  Horncastle  and  Louth. 

Dr.  Tennyson  married  (Aug.  6,  1806)  Elizabeth  Fytche;  and  their  first  child, 
sorge,  died  in  infancy.  He  moved  to  Somersby  in  1808,  and  the  rectory  in 
is  quiet  village  was  their  home  for  many  years.  According  to  the  parish  regis- 
rs,  the  Tennyson  family  consisted  of  eleven  children:  Frederick  (1807), 
larles  (1808-1879),  Alfred  (1809-1892),  Mary  (1810-1884),  Emilia  (1811- 
•89)  Edward  (1813-1890),  Arthur  (1814),  Septimus  (1815-1866),  Matilda 
016),  Cecilia  (1817),  Horatio  (1819).  They  formed  a joyous,  lively  house- 
»ld,  amusements  being  agreeably  mingled  with  their  daily  tasks.  They  were 
handsome  and  gifted,  with  marked  personal  traits  and  imaginative  temper- 
lents.  They  were  very  fond  of  reading  and  story-telling.  At  least  four  of 
e boys  Frederick,  Charles,  Alfred,  and  Edward  — were  addicted  to  verse- 
itmg. 

.Jhe  scholarly  rector  carefully  attended  to  the  education  and  training  of  his 
udren.  He  turned  his  talents  and  accomplishments  to  good  account  in  stimu- 
ing  their  mental  growth.  Alfred  was  a pupil  of  Louth  Grammar  School  four 

ifi 


INTRODUCTION. 


vears  ("1816-1820).  During  this  time  he  presumably  learned  something,  althou^,, 
Yo  flattering  reports  of  his  progress  have  come  down  to  us.  "then  private  teach- 
es were  employed  by  Dr.  Tennyson  to  instruct  his  boys ; but  he  took  upon  himself 
for  'theT  most  part  the  burden  of  fitting  them  for  college.  One  incident  con- 
nected  with  the  poet’s  intellectual  life  at  home  is  worth  repeating.  It  has  been 
said  that  his  father  required  him  to  memorize  the  odes  of  Horace,  and  to  recite 
them  morning  by  morning  until  the  four  books  were  gone  through.  Terhaps  this 
praX  aided  him  in  cultivating  a delicate  sense  for  metrical  music,  in  which  he 

“'SrK™  ol  study  M,  imposed  b,  hi,  f«hy,  IjUn, 

out  of-doors  much  of  the  time,  rambling  through  the  pastures  and  wolds  about 
out  ot  doors  m The  brothers,  Charles  and  Alfred,  were  greatly 

^ch^to each ^ogther  ^-frequently  were  together  in  their  walks  They  were 
v th  lorcT p and  strong  for  their  age.  Charles  was  a popular  boy  in  Somersby  on 

«>*•  ™*  c*r.ta  &££*%£ 

Alfred  who  was  solitary,  not  caring  to  mingle  with  other  lads  in  tneir  sports. 
He  was  shy  and  reserved,  moody  and  absent-minded,  exhibiting  when  a boy  the 
same  habits  and  peculiarities  which  characterized  him  as  a man. 

woods  were  no!  wasted.  The  quiet,  meditative  boy  lived  tu realm  ol  the  tma£l 

His  literary  career  began  in  his  youth,  his  boyish  rhymes  and  those  of  his ;e de 

m,.'85i'ey2o'.PS“hbL  -e-e  busy  Uy 

ooiy  scribbled  a ««  veme  ‘Jd’ihey  »PF< 

EfiZSZZ  ■«  me  -S-C  0t“:  7u'“mTo,  3 

The  Te„n,»n  child, «n  .ere  o«  for 

were  favored  in  another  respect.  • J « husbanded,  enabled  tb 

country  clergyman.  His  means  which  he  s J Qn  the  eastern  coa 
family  to  spend  the  summers  at  Mablethorpe  and  g , . Hf 

of  Enoland.  Thus  Alfred’s  passion  for  the  sea  was  develop  early  m i 
is  said°that  in  his  boyhood  he  occasionally  tramped  the  whole  distance  (a 

miles  or  more)  from  Somersby  to  the  coast.  dwelling  in  I-outh  pa 

For  some  years  it  was  the  rector  s custom  to  occupy  f cnmersbv  li- 

Of  the  schooiyyear.  In  this  way  the  seclusion  and  mono ‘°ZfolnsZe Th 
were  broken.  The  young  Tennysons  saw  considerable  of  Lincoln » ^ 

occasionally  visited  the  old  manor-house  of  Bayons  and  were  o A„r, 

the  home  of  their  aunt,  Miss  Fytche,  in  Westgate  ^elTurZ,  of  Caistc, 
were  at  times  the  guests  of  their  great-uncle,  the  R • Charles  The  tv 

who,  dying  about  1834,  left  his  property  and  GrasbyHi  g t C • ]ackso 

xyx  ns  XTOff 't£s£X!SSS.  i~* 

for  which  the  county  is  so  justly  famous.” 


IN  7 'R  0DUC1  'ION. 


„„„tSh  fh.,Wej?  ‘he  ^roundings  and  experiences  of  Tennyson’s  childhood  and 
£ “*.h  ’ tHey  1"flu.®!,ced  hls  Yhole  llfe’  and  lnevhably  entered  into  his  poetry  of 
mlkesyhim.  ^ lllUStrateS  the  truth  that  a Poet  is  largely  «hat  his  environment 

In  October,  1828,  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  leaving  in  1821 

rfUnenhis  degHe%‘  -In  n1S  boyhood  Alfred  manifested  unmistakable  indications 
ot  genius;  and  during  his  university  career  he  was  generally  looked  upon  as  a 

cofleniTns10  n ’ w^'?!  thingS  were  exPected  by  his  teachers  and  fellow  - 
collegians.  Dr.  Whewell,  his  tutor,  treated  him  with  unusual  respect.  It  was 

loMght  !?  it  n°  *hght.honor  for  a young  man  of  twenty  to  win  the  chancellor’s 
f°8r  the  PT  P°em  “Timbuctoo,”  and  the  volume  of  his  poems 
^cef  d l83°  hlm  a °f  Celebrity  beyond  his  set  of  college  acquain- 

•n^il6  31  Ca™bridge’  Tennyson  formed  friendships  which  lasted  till  death 

Sad^hlT 2?/  °tne'  ,IlK4S  indeed  a company  of  choice  spirits  with  whom 
r had  the  good  fortune  to  be  associated.  Among  them  were  Milnes,  Kemble 

rc‘'lcb’  fofrd.’  B.rook,fie'd’  Spedding,  and  others.  Besides  these,  he  numbered 
imong  be  friends  of  his  early  manhood,  Fitzgerald,  Kinglake,  Thackeray 
amonCe’  ,G  ,adstone’  Carlyle,  Rogers,  Forster,  the  Lushingtons,  and  othe? 
dm?d  scholars  and  men  of  letters.  In  their  companionship  he  found  the 
raided lsh.nece.ssa7  for  the  development  of  his  poetical  faculty.  They  all  re- 
.arded  him  with  feelings  of  warmest  admiration.  The  young  singer  had7 at  least 
1 few  appreciative  readers  during  the  ten  or  twelve  years  of  obscurity  when  the 
mblic  cared  little  for  his  writings.  By  their  words  of  commendation  he  was 

faasterrh|e?nstinct!SUe  CaIling’  t0  which  he  was  led  b7  an  over- 

Much  as  Tennyson  owed  to  these  men,  he  owed  most  to  one  whose  name  is 
ever  associated  with  his  own,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  a son  of  the  historian. 

romise  ^iKTh"2  t0  CfmbndSe  he  met  Hallam,  a young  man  of  extraordinary 
v ’ h.  became  the  dearest  of  his  friends  — more  to  him  than  a brother 
hey  were  inseparable  in  their  walks  and  studies.  They  shared  each  other’s 

" irougHh? FrennchSp SmS’  'ri?  *Umm.er  °f  1830  the  two  comrades  travelled 
rthur’s  ovi  JyleaT-  lhelr  int'mate  fellowship  was  strengthened  bv 
™S,  L °r  theLP°et  s Finger  sister,  Emilia.  It  was  apparently  his 


. ,,  , , . r 013LCI,  Esinnia.  H was 

“ • g<f  ,eartbly  attachment;  and  the  beautiful  record  of  their  “ faiVcompanion- 
P t ,k  f°und  *n  ‘he  lyncs  of  “ In  Memoriam,”  written  to  perpe  ' P 


v of  i^of  tt  1,  V‘T iUU1‘uliam)  wriuen  to  perpetuate  the  mem- 

yTh-th  Iost  Ha Bam,  whose  life  went  suddenly  out  in  Vienna,  Sept.  ic  i8zz 
This  remarkable  elegy  remains,  and  is  likely  to  remain  through  all  • timea 

■ dmlnn  isUthent  ^ C°UM  be  wrought  of  bronze  or  marlle.  Equally 
idunng  is  he  melodious  wail,  “Break,  break,  break,”  one  of  the  sweetest 
S' ln  a11  literature,  written  shortly  after  Hallam’s  death. 

d • A not.ed  aCtwSTS’  Fan,ny  Kemble’  knew  Tennyson  in  the  prime  of  manhood 
I d ,n  her  )°urnaI  (June  16,  1832)  tells  what  manner  of  man  he  was:  - ’ 


r o^«Twhe°nnnono\d  ^ ^ a,7tyS  a Iittle  disaPP°mted  with  the  exte- 

, , P .,®n  ^ °ok  at  him  in  spite  of  his  eyes,  which  are  verv  fine*  hnt  Me 
ld  and  ^ce,  striking  and  dignified  as  t&v  JAA  AAVA  hm7  but  hls 


id  and  face  cfHkino-  a-  • £ J uP  ms  eyes>  whlch  are  verY  fine  i but  his 

beantv  ?n  k 8 d dlSmf¥  as  they  are>  are  almost  too  ponderous  and  massive 
.^nn  Y u !°uyOUng  a .ma,n  ; and  every  now  and  then  there  is  a slightly  sarcastic  ex^ 
ritual  silence  ”*l  m°U‘h  that  alm0st  frighte"s  in  spite  of  his'sh?  manner  and 


Records  of  a Girlhood, 71  pp.  519—520. 


intr  od  uc  ti  on. 


11  T»mraenn  resided  chiefly  with  his  widowed  mother  at 
After  leavrng  college .Tennysor $mbMge  Wells  and  Boxley 

Somersby;  then  at  High  B V 37g  He  was  0ften  in  London  and 

(1840-1844)1  and  Cheltenham  (tS^-lSSO^.  ^ Tennyson  at 

elsewhere  visiting  friends.  F 8 P . g Here  Alfred  would  spend 

the  Cumberland  home  of  ^.Irthiu,”  Md  other  unpublished  poems, 

hour  after  hour  reading  18^8  he  was  a welcome  member  of  the 

uty  - — *. 

the  landscapes  of  England  and  Wa  , P Conti„ent.  ‘‘From  1842,”  says 

also  made  occasional  trips  to  Ire  ‘ English  poets;”  and  he  was  thenceforth 

Howitt,  “ he  became  pre-eminent amo  1 ? gJite  P peopie.  The  Carlyles  were 
often  to  be  found  in  the  socie  y o p jn  jg.,  Mrs.  Carlyle  calls  him  “a 

much  attached  to  him.  In 1 ti ■ with  Something  of  the  gypsy  in  his 

very  handsome  man,  and  a nob  • >>  jn  he  was  granted  a 

appearance,  which  for  me  1S  Per  6 * Anointed  poet-laureate  to  succeed  Words 
pension  of  ^00  and  in  185c >he 1 was ^ ^ 

worth;  in  1855  he  receive  e Shiplake,  Oxfordshire,  Emily  Saral 

• Tennyson  married  (June  13,  ^f.^^Vfor  many  years.  Carlyle,  not  Ion; 
Sellwood  whom  he  had .^"ate  “ with  his  new  wife/’  of  whom  he  pleasantl; 
afterward,  came  across  the  la“reat®  ■ • ht  flittering  blue  eyes  when  you  speak  < 
writes:  “ Mrs.  Tennyson  lights  up glitter.  ^ ^ ^ delicate  ,, 

her;  has  wit;  has  sense,  Tennyson’s  adventure.”  She  was  th 

health,  I should  augur  really  peasmore  in  Berkshire,  afterward  a soli 

d*s,  daughter  ST...  . *»  - »,  John  Mt 

citor  of  Horncastle,  Line  rhorles  Tennyson  Turner. 

and  her  youngest  sister  the  wlfe  ‘ ious  manner,  shc  was  in  every  way  fitte 

A lady  of  high  intelligence  an  8 who  lovingly  bore  testimony  to  he 

to  be  the  companion  of  her  P°^u*?  id(Lal  o{  Woman  as  a wife  and  mothe 
loyalty  and  worth.  Exalted  as  w auirements  almost  perfectly,  dnough 

she  seems  to  have  met  his  exacting  fl  talent  she  never  sought  public  re. 
woman  of  more  than  ordinary  educal "oe  tfs songs she  set  to  music!  Conte, 
ognition.  A considerable  "^  "[‘J  / she  lived  for  husband  and  childre 
with  the  round  of  duties  in  a domestic  sphere^she  ^ ^ uni  w 

Their  wedded  life  was  except  7 A n Igr2,  and  Lionel,  born  Man 
blessed  with  two  so ms,  - Hal  am  boi hoasehoW  a “delightful  fam, 
16,  1854.  Bayard  Taylor  thought  th  <y  one  of  thg  bgst  women  I ever  m 
circle.”  “ His  wife,  he  wrote  in  i8S7>  are  reai  cherubs  of  children 

with;  and  his  two  little  boys,  Hal'  . , t adv  Tennyson  a well-deserv 

these  many  years  with  large 1 and  fai Mul  sy  P. wicykenham.  In  1853  the  laure, 

o...  <»,  — 


biography  of  his  father. 


INTRO D UCTION. 


vii 


m the  Isle  of  Wight.  In  the  lines,  “To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice,”  dated  Tan- 
nary,  1854,  the  poet  describes  his  pleasant  life  in  this  delightful  retreat.  In  1867 
he  purchased  the  Greenhill  estate,  in  the  northern  part  of  Sussex.  Here  he  built 
a Gothic  mansion,  which  is  an  ideal  residence  for  a poet.  This  house,  named 
Aldworth,  was  finished  and  first  occupied  in  1869.  Situated  far  up  on  Black- 
down  Ileath,  it  overlooks  a lovely  valley,  and  commands  a view  of  one  of  the 
finest  landscapes  in  England.  Aldworth  was  his  summer  home  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  Here  he  found  the  peace  and  seclusion  that  he  coveted,  — at  least 
■part  of  the  tune, —spending  his  days  removed  from  the  bustle  and  rush  and 
unrest  of  the  outside  world. 

It  should  not  be  supposed  from  this  that  Tennyson’s  life  at  Farrin'gford  was 
passed  in  monastic  isolation.  _ However  sequestered  Aldworth  was  from  the 
abodes  of  men,  the  poet’s  mansion  near  Freshwater  was  not  a hermitage  Thither 
in  the  golden  years  of  his  long  career,  in  the  fifties  and  sixties  and'seventies 
“Trmen  111  ali  ‘he  walks  of  life,  - preachers,  statesmen,  artists,  and 

authors.  His  brothers  and  sisters,  especially  Horatio  and  Matilda,  were  with 
him  a great  deal  of  the  time.  Occasional  visits  from  his  young  nephews  and 
nieces,  and  afterward  the  presence  of  grandchildren,  gladdened  the  days  of  the 
aged  singer.  For  many  years  Mrs.  Julia  Margaret  Cameron  (who  achieved  fame 
by  her  marvellously  successful  photographs)  and  her  husband  were  near  neigh- 
s of  Tennyson  s,  their  cottage,  Dimbola,  being  not  far  from  Farringford  The 
Camerons  and  the  Tennysons  lived  in  closest  intimacy,  visiting  elch  other’s 
homes  almost  daily  Other  dear  friends  on  the  Isle  of  Wight  were  the  Prinseps, 
Mr.  W.  G.  Ward,  Sir  John  Simeon,  and  Mrs.  Hughes,  mother  of  Tom  Hughes 

he  world  S0IHi  lTd  °f  l redUSe  long  at  a time’  He  saw  mach  of 

' ' His  solitude  was  broken  by  occasional  trips  abroad,  and  by  frequent 

..ours  through  the  counties  of  England  and  Wales.  During  his  entire  career 
after  leaving  Cambridge  in  1831,  it  may  be  said  that  he  inevitably  gravitated  to 
^ondon  to  stay  a few  weeks  or  months,  and  refresh  himself  with  boon  companions. 

The  1 tGtmpt  rMde  hfr£-t0  trac,j  a11  the  wanderings  of  this  much-travelled  man 
The  letters  of  Edward  Fitzgerald  afford  some  clews  to  Tennyson’s  whereabouts 
lurmg  his  early  manhood,  when  his  movements  were  not  so  closely  watched  and 

1 Tu°nde-:d  tR  nirSpv,a-PerS;  “ 1 have  ‘ust  come  from  Leamington,”  he  writes 
I 7.’  l840).;  7hlle,  ' there  1 Alfred  by  chance  ; we  made  two  or  three 
, leasant  excursions  together  ; to  Stratford-upon-Avon  and  Kenilworth,  etc.” 

'in °ber’  l8,Vu  ^ WnteS:  “As,t0  AUred’  1 have  heard  nothing  of  him 

« ~ g.i«E « . wW.i,  ^ 

I,  ire'flTlMC.fS  M?'  *I"J  memories  of  Heir  t,„. 

fils  are  recalled  in  The  Daisy,”  written  in  Edinburgh  two  years  later-  this 

'hieckedaonUthfS4ei  ^ the  fiind'ing  °J  ,a  daisy  “ a b°°k’  the  fl™er  having’ been 
, lucked  on  the  Splugen,  and  placed  by  Mrs.  Tennyson  between  the  leavfs  of  a 

tie  volume  as  a memento  of  their  Italian  journey.  Scotland  and  the  neighbor- 
g isles  seem  to  have  exercised  a strange  power  over  the  laureate  • for  he  was 
ten  attracted  to  the  Highlands,  Valentia,  and  Ireland.  He  travelled  in  Portu- 
rl  in  1859  with  his  friend  Palgrave.  He  revisited  the  Pyrenees  in  iSfir 
J.rnewuh  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  and  again  in  1876.  In  1865  he  was  at  Weimar 
d Dresden;  m l869_through  France  and  Switzerland  with  Frederick  Locker 
e went  to  Norway  in  1872,  where  he  had  journeyed  before,  led  thither  bv 
ambnagrdyTnard88^yl0r  S “ NMthero  He  wL  in  Italy’in  tS^and  £ 


INTRODUCTION. 


In  1881  Tennyson  voyaged  with  Mr.  Gladstone  to  Copenhagen,  meeting  at 
King  Christian’s  court  the"  Princess  of  Wales  and  the  sovereigns  of  Greece  and 
Russia.  He  visited  the  Channel  Islands  in  1887,  and  in  the  spring  of  1891  he 
was  cruising  in  the  Mediterranean.”  Only  a few  months  before  his  death  he 
was  in  lersfy,  Guernsey,  and  London  ; and  the  venerable  minstrel  was  preparing 
to*  return  to  Farringford  for  the  winter  when  the  final  summons  came  in  October, 

* 892.  So  the  spirit  of  roving  clung  to  him  even  to  the  end  of  h.s  earthly 

pilgrimage  declined  a baronetcy  offered  by  the  queen  as  a reward  for 

his  loyal  devotion  to  the  crown,  and  again  in  1868,  when  tendered  by  Disraeli. 
In  the  latter  part  of  1883  he  accepted  a peerage  at  Gladstone  s earnest  solicita- 
tion He  was  created  a peer  of  the  realm  Jan.  24,  1884,  with  the  new  title 
Baron  of  Aldworth,  Sussex,  and  of  Freshwater,  Isle  of  Wight.  He  took  his 
seat  in  the  House  of  Lords  March  II,  1884*  , , , , 

Baron  Tennyson  had  a splendid  lineage,  three  lines  of  noble  and  royal  fam- 
ilies behig  mingled  in  his  descent.  The  poet  himself  writes:  “ lhrough  my 
great-grandmother  [Elizabeth  Clayton],  and  through  Jane  Pitt,  a still  remoter 
grandmother,  I am  doubly  descended  from  Plantagenets  (Lionel,  Duke  of  Clar 
ence,  and  John  of  Lancaster),  and  this  through  branches  of  the  Barons  d Eyn 

COUThe  pedigree  of  his  grandfather,  George  Tennyson,  is  traced  back  to  “the 
middle-cfass  fine  of  the  Tennysons,”  and  through  Elizabeth  Clayton  fxn^ThJ 
lions  back  to  Edmund,  Duke  of  Somerset,  and  farther  back  to  Edward  III.  Th< 
laureate’s  grandfather  was  a well-known  lawyer  and  wealthy  lanc  °w"er  ° 
I incolnshire  who  “ sat  more  than  once  in  Parliament,  representing  Bletch 
inglv-  ” his  second  son,  Charles  Tennyson-d’Eyncourt,  who  succeeded  him  a 
thf  possessor  of  the  family  estate  of  Bayons  Manor,  was  a noted  public  man 
having  represented  Lambeth  and  other  boroughs  in  Parliament  from  1818 
,852  At  the  death  of  George  Tennyson  (July  4,  1835).  *e  val“a^^la^ 
property  near  Great  Grimsby  was  left  to  the  rector’s  family,  and  it  is  still  (1896 
in  the  hands  of  Frederick  Tennyson,  the  poet  s elder  brother. 

d'elatives'5  ' He  ^suffered  ^ sevMeTbkiw^in^the'd^^l^^h^secOTi^son^  Lionel 

wh1leeon  the  homeward  voyage  from  India.  He  J'^^nUsoif  h 

Glanyas  “ To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and  Ava.  The  Hon.  Lionel  y * 
several’years  connected  with  the  India  office,  was  attacked  by  jungle  fever  whi 
on  a visit  to  India,  and  died  on  board  the  Chusan,  near  Aden,  April  20,  l88< 

31  ‘Horrs^ere  ICeied  plentifully  on  Lord  Tennyson  in  his  last  years,  but  1 

asst  sis u 

Hving.  He  read  Shakespeare  during  his  final  illness,  and  contimte  o C°™P° 
even  on  his  death-bed,  dictating  “The  Silent  Voices  sung  at  hls ^uie^al* 
the  tranquil  evening  of  a well-spent  life  he  peacefully  passed  away  Oct.  6,  189 
receivtag  burial  cofl.  1 2)  in  theP  Poets’  Corner  of  Westminster  Abbey. 


INTR  OD  UCTION. 


u 


THE  POETRY  OF  TENNYSON. 

Tennyson  is  pre-eminently  a lyric  poet.  His  lyrical  efforts  embrace  an 
extensive  range  of  subjects  and  a wide  variety  of  metres.  Not  having  naturally 
the  rhythmical  facility  of  Byron  or  Shelley,  he  conquered  the  technical  difficul- 
ties of  the  minstrel’s  art  by  painstaking  study  and  labor.  In  this  field  he 
became  a master.  But,  not  realizing  his  limitations,  or  not  content  with  the 
renown  of  being  a great  lyrist,  he  ambitiously  essayed  to  enter  fields  where 
supremacy  was  for  him  impossible.  In  the  epic  and  the  drama  he  achieved  only 
partial  success.  It  is,  therefore,  as  a lyric  poet  that  Tennyson  is  chiefly  known 
and  will  be  remembered.  Such  incomparable  lyrics  as  “Break,  break  break  ” 
“ I'he  splendor  falls,”  and  “Crossing  the  Bar,”  prove  him  to  be  a singer  by 
right  divine  — one  whose  fame  is  immortal. 

In  some  of  his  blank-verse  idylls  he  was  scarcely  less  happy.  Noteworthy 
among  these  are  his  studies  and  imitations  of  the  antique,  — “ CEnone,”  “The 
Lotus-Eaters,”  “ Ulysses,”  “ Tithonus,”  “Lucretius,”  “ Tiresias,”  “Demeter  ” 
and  “ The  Death  of  CEnone,”  — which,  it  is  safe  to  say,  are  not  generally  popu- 
lar, however  much  they  may  be  admired  by  persons  of  scholarly  and  critical 
tastes.^  “In  Memoriam  ” and  “Maud”  are  merely  collections  of  lyrics.  Ten- 
nyson’s dramas  are  often  lyrical  in  spirit  if  not  in  form;  they  are  distinctly 
undramatic.  Except  a few  magnificent  passages  of  blank  verse,  the  lyrics  are 
the  best  things  in  them.  The  songs  in  “The  Princess,”  and  the  little  melodies 
scattered  through  the  “Idylls  of  the  King,”  will  be  prized  in  future  ages  when 
the  mam  portions  of  these  works  may  have  lost  their  interest  for  the  average 
reader  rhese  lyrics  have  been  set  to  music,  and  sung  in  many  a household 
where  his  longer  poems  are  unread.  The  scenes  and  characters  described  in 
tnem  have  been  depicted  by  painters.  Thus  the  sister  arts  have  conspired  to 
popularize  them,  and  impress  them  on  the  memory. 

Tennyson’s  lyrical  successes  are  numerous,  the  list  including  most  of  his 
shorter  poems.  An  array  of  versatile,  superior  productions!  They  make  up  a 
considerable  body  of  poetry,  much  greater  in  bulk  than  the  quantity  of  endur- 
mg  verse  produced  by  Herrick,  Gray,  Collins,  Goldsmith,  Cowper,  Burns,  Col- 
Whk tier  °rdsw°rth’  Scott>  Keats,  Campbell,  Browning,  Bryant,  Poe,  Lowell,  or 

J.  Tennyson’s  first .book  — “ Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical  ” (1830) -was  made  up 
’ Th?v  ^h°f  met1n.Ca1  dl^ersions>  yet  it  contained  a few  pieces  that  are  imperishableP 
p a'nVhat  ^hen  a y°ung  ma»  be  was  as  much  addicted  to  word- 
music  and  word-color  as  he  was  in  later  years.  The  author  of  “ Mariana  ” and 
e lrge  was  a poetic  artist  of  more  than  ordinary  equipment. 

' b°°h^fu  “ p°ems,”  published  late  in  1832,  included  some  of  his 

'pala  tf3A1C.S’~iT'TherLady  °f  Shalott>”  “ The  Miller’s  Daughter,”  “The 
' palace  of  Art,  The  Lotus-Eaters,”  “A  Dream  of  Fair  Women,”  etc., — 
laving  the  richness  of  melody  and  the  indescribable  witchery  of  style  whick 
.onstitute  lennyson  s charm. 

hin!"  Volumf.S  °[  “ Poems  ’’  appearing  in  1842  were  gathered  the  finest 

ln  th.® ,two  earllf  books,  but  chanrd  and  polished  until  well-nigh  perfect, 
gether  with  a number  of  new  works  - “ Morte  d’Arthur,”  “The  Talking 
t-  »,  V yssesl  “ Locksle7  Hall,”  “ Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,”  “ The  Two 
oices,  St.  Agnes,”  “Sir  Galahad,”  “Godiva,”  “Break,  break,  break,” 
tc.  .hat  are  justly  regarded  among  the  choicest  treasures  of  British  lyrical  and 


introduction. 


■ i „i,  nrtptrv  These  poems,  new  and  old,  exhibited  not  only  a complete  mas- 
idyllic  poetry,  these  poe  , ^hedc  susceptibility,  but  a rich  vein  oi 

sense°and  Spirituality.  Here  were  exquisite iS 

observer  of  nature  as  we,,  as  a diligent 

student  of  books.  “landscape-lover,”  who  with  pictorial  fidelity 

...  «i 

ing,  liberalizing.  p ; » (ls47)  in  some  respects,  it  falls  somewhat 

accurately^desoribed^  a “ £*1  failure  ” The  plot  is  the  work^ . hterary 
artist,  rather  than  the  heaven-born  lnspiratm  g • enough  with  its 

the  realm  of  the  romantic  and  the  fantastic,  the  st  y pi  | iniprobable  to 
viry  fancies  and  delightful  revene^  but  it  * Lcomes  at  last 
be  impressive.  It  does  not  bear  the  tes t of  re  reao g conceits  and 


be  impressive.  It  does  not  Dear  .■  ' litterjng.  conceits  and 

cloyed  with  its  gorgeous  s^yle^  ovedoad  d ' hlf  .bid,  deed  with  the 

lZ.”“e”,”nP  »d  ielicitously,  contpeh.,,.  lot  »»e  ehottoonttop, 

t JSS*H  the  beautiful  .leg,  known  a, '•  In 

ferred  immortality  upon  his  lost  fnen  , gj  jgr0  had  been  in  process  of 

mental  work,  which  appeared  anony  y (jeatj1  0|  Arthur  Henry  Hallam  in 
growth  during  the  seventeen  years  aft  , dearest  of  his  companions  occu- 

1833.  This  tribute  of  love  to  the  ”0st original  of  Tennyson’s 

pies  a unique  place  nr  literature  It  is  ^ and  favorite  work.  Into  it  he 

sustained  writings  — it  is  his  best  *e"eC  • f It  „rew  out  of  the  author’s  man- 
poured  the  consecrated  fragrance  of  hi  g • S k He  owed  nothing 
Hold  experiences,  not  only  as  a ^e  sonnets  of  Shakespeare.  The 

material  to  Petrarch,  as  has  been  c mm  , Tennysonian.  “ In  Memoriam  ” 

work  is  English  and  modern.  It  is  emp  ‘ ^ of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  is 

may  be  classed  with  the  few  really  great  P . f English  tongue.  Per- 

a masterpiece,  worthy  of  a place  among  • uentjal.  Perhaps  no  other  literary 
haps  no  other  poem  of  our  age  has  eei  gU(Jh  high  praise  from  eminent 

~h  >-""«•  “”dy 

ning  in  the  stanzas,  O,  that  ^ twere  po  ^ to  Mrs.  Ritchie,  we  owe  the 
1837.  This  was  the  germ  of  Maud.  g.  ° 0f  t|le  laureate’s  most 

expanded  poem  to  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  John  Sin  , ;d  that 

intimate  friends  and  neighbors  in  the  Me  of  Wight.  ^ { q{  lhis  p?em. 
seemed  to  him  as  if  something  were.  d ded  j 1855,  it  was  greeted  with  a 


INTR  OD  UC  TION. 


xi 


purpose  was  misconceived  on  account  of  the  Jingo  sentiments  and  hysterical  xsl- 
vings  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  hero  (who  was  not  Tennyson  in  disguise,  but  a 
fictitious  character).  This  poem,  always  a favorite  with  the  author,  won  its  way 
at  last  to  a generous  appreciation  of  its  abundant  merits. 

The  threads  woven  into  the  fabric  of  “Maud”  are  a commercial  swindle, 
suicide,  love-making,  murder,  insanity,  and  an  unrighteous  war.  Says  a critic  in 
the  North  British  Review  : “ The  poem  is  a lyric  monologue,  consisting  of  en- 
vious invective,  gradually  mastered  by  love,  then  anger,  despair,  madness,  and 
patriotic  enthusiasm.” 

Out  of  these  melodramatic  elements  a great  work  could  hardly  be  expected  to 
come  forth.  Something  is  wanting  in  the  leading  figure,  whose  morbid  solilo- 
quizing betrays  a weak  character.  Notwithstanding  the  terribly  serious  and  tragic 
circumstances  of  his  history,  the  hero  does  not  always  keep  from  making  a laugh- 
ing-stock  of  himself.  While  not  an  unqualified  success,  a work  'containing  one 
of  the  sweetest  love-lyrics  in  any  language,  “Come  into  the  garden,”  certainly  is 
not  to  be  pronounced  a failure.  This  exquisite  song  “at  once  struck  the  fancy 
of  musicians,  and  seemed  spontaneously  to  clothe  itself  in  melody.”  There  are 
other  strains  in  “Maud”  which  rank  among  the  lyrical  triumphs  with  which 
Alfred  Tennyson  enriched  English  literature. 

Of  all  his  extended  efforts,  “Enoch  Arden”  (1864)  has  been  read  most 
widely.  Its  popularity  is  partly  accounted  for  by  the  peculiar  incident  of  a long- 
absent  husband  returning  home  to  find  his  wife  married  to  another  man.  The 
story  of  Enoch  Arden  passes  current  where  the  name  of  Arthur  Hallam  is 
unheard.  It  has  been  twice  dramatized.  Judging  from  the  large  number  of 
translations  and  illustrated  editions  of  this  poem,  it  is  by  far  the  best  known 
of  the  laureate’s  writings  in  foreign  lands,  having  been  translated  into  Danish, 
German,  Dutch,  French,  Bohemian,  Italian,  Hungarian,  and  Spanish.  School 
editions,  with  notes,  have  been  extensively  circulated  in  France  and  Germany. 

As  a literary  production,  “Enoch  Arden”  is  a poem  after  the  manner  of 
Tennyson’s  English  idylls,  only  the  narrative  is  more  elaborate.  In  this  field  he 
achieved  eminent  success,  because  he  was  at  home  in  pastoral  subjects,  and  made 
the  most  of  his  material.  The  tale  is  said  to  be  literally  true,  at  least  in  its 
principal  details,  having  been  related  to  the  poet  by  Thomas  Woolner,  the 
sculptor  ; a similar  narrative  forms  the  groundwork  of  a short  poem  by  Miss 
Procter,  published  in  her  “Legends  and  Lyrics”  about  i860.  The  style  is  not 
so  severe  and  bare  as  Wordsworth’s,  yet  it  exhibits  a noble  simplicity,  varied 
with  flashes  bf  imaginative  splendor.  While  the  picture  of  the  fisher  village  is 
idealized,  it  is  wonderfully  sympathetic  and  faithful.  The  poet  invests  the  lives 
of  humble  folk  with  dignity  and  “with  glory  not  their  own.”  In  dwelling  on 
affecting  scenes  with  a tender  pathos  that  but  few  story-tellers  have  equalled,  he 
shows  his  skill  as  an  artist  in  relieving  the  sombre  sadness  of  the  tale  with 
glimpses  of  domestic  felicity.  As  a whole,  “ Enoch  Arden  ” is  not  an  intellec- 
tual performance  of  a high  order.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a poem  that  the  world  could 
ill  afford  to  lose. 

instalment  of  “ Idylls  of  the  King  ” was  given  to  the  world  in  1859, 
although  six  copies  of  the  first  two  in  cruder  form  were  privately  printed  in  1857 
with  the  title  “ Enid  and  Nimue.”  Four  more  Arthurian  romaunts  were  added 
in  1869,  two  in  1872,  and  one  in  1885.  In  early  life  Tennyson  had  been 
attracted  by  the  Arthur  legends,  and  had  worked  several  isolated  episodes  or  pic- 
tures  into  the  lyrk — “The  Lady  of  Shalott  ” ( 1832),  “Sir  Galahad”  (1842), 
oir  Lancelot  and  Queen  Guinevere  ” (1842), — and  the  blank-verse  fragment 


introduction. 


2r  mjwwns  a»s-  - »■*  - * - «- 

(perhaps  altered  somewhat)  of  an  Arthuriad.  _ » ances  and 

the  pains  bestowed  upon  them  and  their  el^“ateh be.Twing  to  their 
intended  them  to  be  a monumental  work.  Such i they 'canno  be  o | W 

=r^cmewh:nda» 

risearanCdCfUan  $ There  JToS 

b“i,„fc.  ”d' King,”  Tennyson  Wtowedj 

romance,  yet  he  added  something  o ^s  o g -n  thfm  of  historic  fact  than 

the  feudal  world  are  no -true  to  life.  Th  J ities.  Much  in  them 

of  imaginative  enchantment.  lhey  addressed  to  the  reader 

seems  unreal  and  antiquated,  *"?  [ce‘  of  strength  and  weakness, 

of  to-day.  These  mixed  elemen  historical  fidelity  of  the  pictures  of 

The  main  interest  of  the  idylls  lies  no  m aristocracy  of  the  nineteenth 

legendary  Britain,  for  they  portray  S ■ the  verse>  in  the  artistic  beauty 

teaching  which  permeates  and  trans- 

figwlthoeuT-the  lessons  drawn  from  the  storied  pages  of 

phrase  o^ 'the  Arthur  legend  would  not  have nX  wS«dly  wirti,  whfhf  " 
a past  with  which  our  own  age  is  not  m sy  p thy  cal  drama,  becoming 

Late  in  life  Tennyson  entered  the  difficult  hew  c mi  ^ vnn  D ,;e  calls 

a rival  of  Shakespeare  himself.  ^he  hlstonc  trdogy ^ y crhaps 

“Harold”  (1876),  “Becket”  (1884),  genius  than  do  the 

affords  a better  example  of  the  rig  <-mP  f three  momentous  periods  of 

Arthurian  romaunts.  The,, ; are  valuable : s ud  et > o ^ three  mom  ^ , Ae 

English  history.  Mr.  Arthur  Waugh  calls  Harold  a g ^ ^ 

theme  being  “ full  of  tragic  pathos  a great  deal  of  heavy 

fessed,  however,  that  Harold  is M are  both  noble  poems.  They  are 

poetry.  “ Becket’  and  Queen  Ma  y ^ ^ not  Pfar  below  the  pro- 

destined  to  become  classics.  Q , J t-  K “Becket”  is  Tennyson  s 

ductions  of  the  best  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists.  Becket 


INTRODUCTION. 


Xlll 


diamatic  ma.sterpiece.  It  surpasses  all  his  other  extended  works  in  strength  and 
passion.  This  splendid  tragedy  deserves  a wider  recognition,  not  only  from 
lovers  of  Tennyson,  but  from  all  admirers  of  virile  and  sonorous  blank  verse. 

The  three  shorter  plays  or  dramatic  sketches,  “The  Cup  ” (1884),  “The 
Falcon  (1884),  and  “ 1 he  Promise  of  May  ” (1886),  are  comparative  failures; 
the  playwright  s instinct  is  absent,  although  here  and  there  are  gleams  of  poetid 
fire.  The  charming  idyllic  comedy  of  “ The  Foresters  ” (1892)  derives  its  inter* 
est  from  the  historic  and  romantic  features  of  the  story  rather  than  from  tha 
poet’s  handling  of  the  materials.  It  was  a worthy  endeavor  on  the  part  of  the 
venerable  singer  to  retell  the  old  tale  or  tradition  of  Robin  Hood  and  Maid 
Marian.  As  was  to  be  expected,  he  improved  the  occasion  to  introduce  several 
dainty  lyrics,  wherein  was  displayed  the  master’s  old-time  power  of  exquisite 
versifying.  But  there  is  a poverty  of  stirring  incidents,  of  moral  and  intellectual 
conflicts,  which  make  up  the  warp  and  woof  of  great  dramas. 

Tennyson’s  dramas  are  not  adapted  to  the  stage  of  to-day,  being  deficient  in 
the  theatrical  effects  which  tell  with  an  audience.  He  lacked  a knowledge  of 
stage  requirements  and  scenic  accessories.  Experience  as  an  actor  or  manager, 
Dr  even  as  a theatre-goer,  would  have  been  of  advantage  to  him  here.  Notwith’ 
standing  Mr.  Frederick  Archer’s  favorable  opinion  of  “ Harold,”  no  player  has 
fet  tried  the  role  of  the  last  Saxon  king.  Brilliant  costumes  and  spectacular 
>plendors  might  make  this  play  endurable  on  the  stage,  but  its  presentation 
vould  be  a doubtful  experiment. 

Queen  Mary  ’ is  a drama  to  be  read,  not  acted.  Its  action  drags,  and  its 
tumerous  speeches  are  not  such  as  rouse  listeners  to  the  pitch  of  enthusiasm. 
Vlr.  Irving  and  Miss  Bateman  essayed  its  production  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  in 
1876  with  indifferent  success.  Without  its  enchanting  stage-pictures,  “The 
i'oresters  ” would  sorely  try  the  patience  of  an  average  audience.  The  author’s 
ittempts  to  relieve  the  tediousness  with  humor  do  not  wholly  fail;  nevertheless 
lot  one  of  the  characters  bubbles  over  with  mirthful  sallies.  The  interchange 
<1  conversation  is  not  enlivened,  as  it  is  in  Shakespeare,  by  sparkling  wit  and 
epartee.  To  the  superb  mounting  of  this  drama  by  Mr.  Augustin  Daly  and' the 
ascinating  personality  of  Miss  Ada  Rehan,  was  due  in  large  measure  whatever 
|f  success  was  achieved  by  “The  Foresters.”  “ Becket  ” alone  redeems 
;ennyson  s reputation  as  a dramatist.  As  presented  by  Henry  Irving  and  Ellen 
erry  in  1893,  it  proved  to  be  an  exceptionally  strong  performance.  Allowing 

the  credit  justly  belonging  to  this  honored  actor  for  adapting  it  to  the  stao-e 
: still  remains  true  that  the  laureate  is  entitled  to  the  chief  glory  for  this  impor- 
ant  addition  to  England’s  dramatic  literature.  His  other  plays  failed  on  the 
oards;  they  lack  spirited  dialogue  and  exciting  action. 

What  of  the  minor  poems,  — the  lyrics,  idylls,  and  ballads  written  during  the 
1st  four  decades  of  Tennyson’s  literary  career  ? To  some  it  seemed  that  these 
oems  compare  unfavorably  with  the  songs  of  his  early  manhood.  So  thought 
-dward  Fitzgerald,  recalling  the  rapturous  sensations  which  those  poems  when 
rst  written  produced  on  himself  and  other  enthusiastic  admirers  of  England’s 
sing  poet.  But  readers  of  a later  generation,  who  have  never  enjoyed  the  privi- 
ige  of  personal  intercourse  with  the  bard,  are  able  to  appreciate  the  work  of 
is  later,  as  well  as  that  of  his  earlier,  years. 

I Passing  by  the  two  memorable  patriotic  lyrics,  “Ode  on  the  Death  of  the 
>uke  of  Wellington,”  and  “The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,”  also  the  per- 
mal  poems  (which  include  some  of  his  sincerest,  manliest  utterances),  we  find 
nong  the  things  printed  between  1850  and  1870  such  jewels  as  “ The  Brook,” 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


“ Avlmer’s  Field,”  “ The  Voyage,”  “ The  Grandmother,”  “ Northern  Farmer,” 
“The  Victim  ” “Wages,”  “The  Higher  Pantheism,”  and  “Flower  in  the 
crannied  wall.”  As  if  to  prove  that  his  fertility  in  the  province  of  the  lyric  was 
not  exhausted,  the  laureate,  though  past  sixty,  made  fresh  incursions  into  fields 
of  poetry  long  familiar  to  him.  The  last  two  decades  of  his  life  were  excep- 
tionally productive  of  short  poems,  which  are  stamped  with  dignity  of  thought, 
felicitous  expression,  and  musical  versification.  The  list  of  his  notable  successes 
would  comprehend  nearly  all  the  contents  of  “ Ballads,  and  Other  Poems,  pub- 
lished in  1880,  —a  book  which  Theodore  Watts  characterized  as  the  most 
richly  various  volume  of  English  verse  that  has  appeared  in  his  own  century 
But  the  volumes  “ Tiresias,  and  Other  Poems  (1885),  and  Demeter,  and 
Other  Poems”  (1889),  were  scarcely  less  rich  in  lays  comparable  with  the 
finest  efforts  of  his  earlier  days.  Such  poems  'as  “ The  Ancient  Sage>)} 

“ Loclcsley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After,”  “ To  Virgil,”  “Freedom,  fastness, 
“Happy,”  “The  Progress  of  Spring,”  “ Merlin  and  1 he  Gleam,  bar-far 
away,”  “ Crossing  the  Bar,”  “The  Silent  Voices,”  and  many  more  in  the 
books  of  his  last  years,  would  be  sufficient  of  themselves  to  give  their  author  a 

firm  footing  on  Parnassus.  . , , • ,i  ,1 

Tennyson  is  not  a world-poet.  He  is,  assuredly  not  to  be  clawed  with  he 
few  chosen  spirits  who  reared  majestic  edifices  of  thought  like  the  I had  the 
“ Divina  Commedia,”  “ Paradise  Lost,”  and  “ Faust.  His  appeal  is  more  or 

less  insular.  Much  of  his  verse  has  but  little  bearing  on  humanity  at • large ^ It 
is  national  rather  than  universal.  Tennyson’s  poetry  is  distinctively  English, 
the  Bard  of  Abbotsford  is  Scottish.  The  local  element  is  prominent  in  most 
of  his  writings.  The  lovely  setting  and  coloring  of  In  Memonara  canno- be 
appreciated  by  those  who  have  never  gazed  upon  the  scenery  of  England.  I 
PnPncess  ” “ Maud,”  and  the  dramas  are  manifestly  not  for  mankind  ; and  this 
is  true  of  the  “ Idylls  of  the  King.”  Their  author’s  audience  must  always  be 

£3fS-ta»  of  Burn,  h,  h„  a tog.  fob 

,„Jng  K “rd.nt  wS™.  Robert  is  the  poet  of 

He  found  his  inspiration,  not  in  books,  but  in  nature  and  Oie  Leart  There  is 

the  same  vein  of  human  interest  in  Homer,  whose  frowinf  f^e  ^ms  are  he 
for  bv  the  vitality  of  the  Greek  factor  in  our  civilization.  In  his  poems  are  tne 
seeds^of  Hellenic  culture.  The  heart  of  Greece  is  so  accurately  and  completely 
mirrored  in  Homer,  that  he  has  become  an  inseparable  and  undying  pait  of  her 

1'E”2th°t,,,hLd0,L.no,lot  have  not  acqoir.d  snob  n»m~l  cnrt.nc,  » 

suffer  in  comparison  with  the  mailed  warriors  of  Scott  s r°™"^s. 

Horace  reflects  not  only  fleeting  phases  of  Roman  b"‘  >"  ^‘ace, 

degree  universal  experience.  Tennyson  is  111  S01?e  resVec}  . He  has  not  sc 
and  his  fame  is  as  imperishable  as  is  that  of  the  Augus  an  y . 
closely  identified  himself  with  the  nations  life  as  did  Voubtec 

does  not  loom  up  so  large  as  a historical  personage,  and  it  . Y “J  anc 

whether  he  will  ever  become  so  intimately  associated  with  Eng  £ 


INTR  OD  UCTION. 


character.  Granting  that  Tennyson  is  the  best  exponent  of  the  Victorian  era,  is 
he  a great  representative  poet,  like  Lucretius,  Dante,  or  Chaucer?  Does  he  not 
interpret  some  of  the  temporary  phases  of  his  generation,  rather  than  the  life  and 
spirit  of  the  nineteenth  century  ? And  may  not  the  representative  element  in 
his  verse  be  of  secondary  moment  and  ephemeral?  The  poems  which  are  peren- 
nially fresh,  like  “ The  Miller’s  Daughter,”  and  “ Rizpah,”  are  so  because  they 
appeal  to  the  heart  and  intellect  of  all  times.  Upon  these  and  such  as  these, 
Tennyson’s  following  and  reputation  must  ultimately  rest,  not  upon  such  fugitive 
pieces  as  “ Hands  all  Round  ” and  “ Riflemen  form.” 

Tennyson’s  charm  is  as  subtle  and  potent  as  is  that  of  the  courtly,  polished 
Horace;  but  his  charm  consists  largely  of  verbal  felicities  that  are  untranslatable. 
According  to  Dryden,  if  Shakespeare’s  “ embroideries  were  burned  down,  there 
would  be  silver  at  the  bottom  of  the  melting-pot.”  Tennyson’s  songs  do  not 
translate  so  well  as  Uhland’s.  If  turned  into  prose,  their  charm  vanishes.  He 
is  great  in  small  things,  not  in  grand  ideas.  Nature  did  not  endow  him  with  the 
pure,  fresh,  joyous  imagination  of  Homer,  — the  calm,  brooding,  radiant  atmos- 
phere through  which  the  old  bard  saw  so  clearly  and  buoyantly.  His  pages 
fairly  bristle  with  subtleties  in  thought  and  expression,  with  fantastic  novelties 
and  meretricious  ornaments,  which  lose  half  of  their  effect  and  beauty  when 
transferred  into  a foreign  language.  His  “ distilled  thoughts  in  distilled  words,” 
as  Matthew  Arnold  calls  them,  must  be  read  in  English. 

Much  of  Tennyson’s  verse  is  open  to  criticism,  being  cold  and  labored,  also 
lacking  in  sustained  force  and  elevation.  A vast  deal  that  he  wrote  can  be 
described  as  polished  mediocrity.  With  all  their  rich  music  and  color,  most  of 
his  shorter  pieces  have  not  the  majesty  which  the  highest  imagination  alone  can 
confer.  All  of  his  longer  productions  show  the  varying  character  of  his  work, 
by  turns  superb  and  weak.  His  mannerisms  are  carried  to  excess.  His  felicities 
are  often  such  as  only  the  cultivated  reader  can  appreciate.  Ordinary  people 
would  enjoy  less  of  refinement  and  more  of  vigor. 

Tennyson  is  not,  then,  one  of  the  mighty  cosmopolitan  forces  of  literature. 
Not  one  of  those  who  suffered  for  poetry’s  sake,  whose  words  are  graven  into 
the  heart  of  civilized  humanity,  he  sang  so  sweetly,  and  did  so  much  to  brighten 
^and  to  dignify  the  life  of  mortals,  that  his  name  must  needs  long  remain  a house- 
hold word  wherever  the  Saxon  tongue  is  heard.  Much  of  his  brilliant  metrical 
foliage  will  wither  “ with  the  process  of  the  suns.”  Nevertheless,  his  fame  is 
Jsnduring.  He  is  more  than  a skilful  versifier  or  literary  artist,  whose  mellifluous 
fines  and  clear-cut,  pithy  phrases  will  continue  to  be  quoted  in  after  ages.  Alfred 
Tennyson’s  poetical  performances  won  for  him  the  lasting  distinction  of  being  a 
| genuine  bard,  one  whose  seat  is  far  up  among  the  throned  sovereigns  of  British 
c3ong* 


Aug . io,  1896. 


EUGENE  PARSONS. 


♦ - j§£i 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  FIRST  EDITIONS. 


827  Poems  by  Two  Brothers.  London.  Printed  for  W.  Simpkin  and  R.  Marshall, 
and  J.  & J.  Jackson,  Louth.  MDCCCXXVII.  pp.  xii.,  228. 

829  Timbuctoo  : A Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor’s  Medal  at  the  Cambridge 

Commencement,  MDCCCXXIX.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege. Printed  in  “ Prolusiones  Academicae  ; MDCCCXXIX.  Cantabrigiae : 
typis  academicis  excudit  Joannes  Smith.” 

830  Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical.  By  Alfred  Tennyson.  London  : Effingham  Wilson, 

Royal  Exchange,  Cornhill,  1830.  pp.  154,  and  leaf  of  Errata. 

832  Poems  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  London  : Edward  Moxon,  64  New  Bond  Street. 

MDCCCXXX1II.  pp.  163.  Post-dated;  published  late  in  1832. 

842  Poems  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  In  Two  Volumes.  London:  Edward  Moxon, 
Dover  Street.  MDCCCXLII.  pp.  vii.,  233  ; vii.,  231. 

847  The  Princess  : A Medley.  By  Alfred  Tennyson.  London  : Moxon. 

MDCCCXLVII.  pp.  164.  Intercalary  lyrics  added  in  third  edition,  1850. 
350  In  Memoriam.  London:  Moxon.  MDCCCL.  pp.  vii.,  210.  Section  L1X. 

inserted  in  the  fourth  edition,  1851;  and  XXXIX.  in  1869. 

852  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  Poet- 
Laureate.  London:  Moxon.  pp.  16. 

855  Maud,  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate. 
London:  Moxon.  pp.  154. 

859  Idylls  of  the  King.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate.  London  : 

Moxon  & Co.  pp.  261.  The  two  idylls,  “Enid”  and  “Vivien,”  privately 
printed  in  1857  with  the  title  “Enid  and  Nimue.”  The  “Dedication”  first 
appeared  in  1862  ; the  epilogue  “ To  the  Queen”  in  1873. 

^64  Enoch  Arden,  etc.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate.  London: 
Moxon.  pp.  178. 

*65  A Selection  from  the  Works  of  Alfred  Tennyson.  London:  Moxon.  This 
volume  contains  seven  new  poems  : “ The  Captain,”  “ On  a Mourner,”  three 
“ Sonnets,”  and  two  “ Songs.”  pp.  256. 

$69  The  Holy  Grail,  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet- 
Laureate.  Strahan,  56  Ludgate  Hill,  London,  pp.  222. 

S70  The  Window ; or,  The  Song  of  the  Wrens.  London  : Strahan. 

I72  Gareth  and  Lynette,  etc.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate. 
Strahan.  pp.  136. 

>75  Queen  Mary:  A Drama.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  London,  pp.  viii.,  278. 

'76  Harold  : A Drama.  By  Alfred  Tennyson.  London : H.  S.  King.  pp.  viii.,  161 

xvii 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  FIRST  EDITIONS. 


1879 

1884 

1885 
1886 
I889 
1892 


PP. 


The  Lover’s  Tale.  By  Alfred  Tennyson.  London:  C.  Kegan  Paul 
vi.,  184. 

The  Cup  and  The  Falcon.  By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  Poet-Laureate. 
London : Macmillan  & Co.  pp.  146. 

Becket.  By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  Poet-Laureate.  London : Macmillan, 
pp.  213. 

Tiresias,  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  P.L. 

London  : Macmillan,  pp.  viii.,  204. 

Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After,  etc.  By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  P.L., 
D.C.L.  London:  Macmillan,  pp.  201. 

Demeter,  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  P.L.,  D.C.L, 
London:  Macmillan,  pp.  vi.,  175. 

The  Foresters:  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian.  By  Alfred,  Lord  Tenny 
son,  Poet-Laureate.  London : Macmillan,  pp.  155. 

The  Death  of  CEnone,  Akbar’s  Dream,  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred  Lord 
Tennyson,  Poet-Laureate.  London:  Macmillan,  pp  vi.,  113. 


CONTENTS 


OXKO 


PAGE 


Achilles  over  the  Trench 591 

Adeline 23 

Alexander.  (Early  Sonnets.) 28 

All  Things  will  die... 4 

Amphion 118 

Ancient  Sage,  The. 605 

Arrival,  The.  (The  Day  Dream.) 116 

“Ask  me  no  more.”  (Princess.) 431 

As  through  the  land.  (Princess.) 390 

Audley  Court 87 

Aylmer’s  Field 140 

Balin  and  Balan 619 

Ballad  of  Oriana,  The 20 

Ballads  and  other  Poems 552 

Battle  of  Brunanburh 589 

Beautiful  City 686 

Beggar  Maid,  The 130 

Blackbird,  The 66 

Boadicea 190 

Break,  break,  break 135 

Bridesmaid,  The.  (Early  Sonnets.) 30 

Brook,  The 136 

Buonaparte 29 

By  an  Evolutionist 685 

Captain,  The 126 

Caress’d  or  Chidden.  (Early  Sonnets.) . . 29 

Character,  A 16 

Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade 631 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 170 

Choric  Song.  (The  Lotos  Eaters.) 59 

Circumstance 21 

City  Child,  The 185 

^Claribel 3 

Columbus 579 

Come  down,  O maid.  (Princess.) 435 

Coming  of  Arthur,  The 198 

Come  into  the  garden.  (Maud.) 454 

Come  not  when  I am  dead 130 

Crossing  the  Bar 687 

Daisy,  The 181 

Day  Dream,  The 114 


PAGE 

Dead  Prophet,  The 634 

Death  of  the  Old  Year,  The 67 

Dedication,  A 190 

Dedicatory  Poem  to  the  Princess  Alice..  572 

Defence  of  Lucknow,  The 573 

Demeter  and  Persephone 652 

De  Profundis 587 

Deserted  House,  The 18 

Despair 601 

Dirge,  A 19 

Dora 84 

Dream  of  Fair  Women,  A 61 

Dying  Swan,  The 19 

Eagle,  The 130 

Early  Sonnets 28 

Early  Spring 635 

Edward  Gray 121 

Edwin  Morris 91 

Eleanore 25 

England  and  America  in  1782 71 

English  Idyls 73 

Enoch  Arden 463 

Epic,  The 73 

Epilogue 632 

Epilogue.  (Day  Dream.) 118 

Epitaph  on  Caxton 637 

Epitaph  on  General  Gordon 637 

Epitaph  on  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe..  637 
Experiments 190 

Farewell,  A 129 

Far  — far  — away 685 

Fatima 42 

First  Quarrel,  The 552 

Fleet,  The 648 

Flight,  The 609 

Flower,  The 184 

Forlorn 670 

Frater  Ave  atque  Yale 636 

Freedom 638 

Gardener’s  Daughter,  The 79 

Gareth  and  Lynette 208 

Geraint  and  Enid 235 


xix 


XX 


CONTENTS. 


Godiva 

Golden  Year,  The 

Go  not,  happy  day.  (Maud.) 

Goose,  The 

Grandmother,  The 

Guinevere 


PAGE 

. 113 
. 103 
,.  450 
72 
..  173 
..  356 


Hands  all  Round 

Happy 

Helen’s  Tower 

Hendecasyllabics 

Hexameters  and  Pentameters 

Higher  Pantheism,  The 

Holy  Grail,  The 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior.  (Prin- 
cess.)  


637 

671 

637 

192 

192 

188 

313 

425 


I come  from  haunts.  (The  Brook.) 

Idyls  of  the  King 

If  I were  loved.  (Early  Sonnets.) . 

In  Memoriam 

In  Memoriam.  (W.  G.  Ward.) 

In  the  Children’s  Hospital 

In  the  Garden  at  Swainston 

In  the  Yalley  of  Cauteretz 

Isabel 

Islet,  The 

It  is  the  Miller’s  Daughter 


136 

197 

30 

480 

687 

570 

184 
183 

7 

185 

41 


Juvenilia 
Kraken,  The 


Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere 

Lady  Clare 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The 

Lancelot  and  Elaine 

Last  Tournament,  The 

Late,  late,  so  late.  (Guinevere.) 

L’Envoi.  (Day  Dream.) 

Leonine  Elegiacs 

Letters,  The 

Lilian 

Literary  Squabbles 

Locksley  Hall 

Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  The '• 

Lotos  Eaters,  The 

Love  and  Death 

Love  and  Duty 

Lover’s  Tale,  The 

Love  that  hath  us.  (Miller’s  Daughter.) 

Love  thou  thy  Land 

Lucretius 


53 

124 

31 

287 

2 

359 

117 

4 

130 

7 

186 

107 

640 

127 

58 

20 

101 

525 

42 

70 

160 


PAGE 


Madeline U 

Margaret 24 

Mariana 8 . 

Mariana  in  the  South 9 

Maud' 440 

May  Queen,  The 54 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam 679 

Merlin  and  Yivien  203 

Mermaid,  The 22 

Merman,  The 2.2 

Miller’s  Daughter,  The : 9 

Milton.  (Alcaics.) 192 

Mine  be  the  strength.  (Early  Sonnets.)  28 

Minnie  and  Winnie 186 

Montenegro 588 

Moral.  (Day  Dream.) 117 

Morte  d’ Arthur 74 

Move  eastward,  happy  earth 130 

My  life  is  full  of  weary  days  27 

Northern  Cobbler,  The >57 

Northern  Farmer.  (New  Style.) 179 

Northern  Farmer.  (Old  Style.) 177 

Nothing  will  die 3 

Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal.  (Prin- 
cess.)  435 

Oak,  The 6S7 

Ode  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington   165 

Ode  sung  at  Opening  of  International 

Exhibition 171 

Ode  to  memory.  Addressed  to 14 

CEnone 41 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights OS 

On  a mourner 63 

On  one  who  affected  an  Effeminate  Man- 
ner  686 

On  the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Yictoria 650 

Opening  of  the  Indian  and  Colonial  Ex- 
hibition by  the  Queen 649 

O swallow,  swallow,  flying.  (Princess.)  406 

Our  enemies  have  fallen.  (Princess.) 425 

Owd  Roa 655 


Palace  of  Art,  The 

Parnassus 

Passing  of  Arthur,  The 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre 

Play,  The 

Poet,  The 

Poets  and  their  Bibliographies 

Poet’s  Mind,  The 

Poet’s  Song,  The. 

Poland.  (Early  Sonnets.) 

Politics 


48 

684 

369 

330 

686 

16 

639 

17 

135 

‘29 

686 


CONTENTS . 


PAGE 

Prefatory  Poem  to  my  Brother’s  Sonnets  686 
Prefatory  Sonnet  to  the  “Nineteenth 


Century  ” 588 

s / Princess,  The 381 

Progress  of  Spring,  The 677 

Prologue.  (Day  Dream.) 114 

Prologue  to  General  Hamley 630 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights 12 

Requiescat 184 

Revenge,  The 559 

Revival,  The.  (Day  Dream.) 116 

Ring,  The 660 

Rizpah 554 

Romney’s  Remorse 681 

Rosalind 25 

Roses  on  the  Terrace,  The 686 

Round  Table,  The 208 

Sailor  Boy,  The 184 

Sea  Dreams 155 

Sea  Fairies,  The 18 

*Sir  Galahad 120 

Sir  John  Franklin 592 

Sir  John  Oldcastle 575 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 129 

Sisters,  The 47 

Sisters,  The 562 

Sleeping  Beauty,  The.  (Day  Dream.). ..  115 
Sleeping  Palace,  The.  (Day  Dream.) ....  115 

Snowdrop,  The 686 

Song  : 

A spirit  haunts 15 

The  Owl 11 

To  the  same 12 

The  winds  as  at  their  hour 7 

Specimen  of  Translation  Homer’s  Iliad..  192 

Spinster’s  Sweet-arts,  The 615 

Spiteful  Letter,  The 186 

St.  Agnes’s  Eve 120 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 94 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a Sensitive 

Mind 4 

Sweet  and  Low.  (Princess.)  398 

Talking  Oak,  The 97 

Tears,  idle  tears.  (Princess.) 405 

The  form,  the  form  alone.  (Early  Son- 
nets.)   30 

The  splendor  falls.  (Princess.)  404 

Third  of  February,  The 169 

Throstle,  The 687 


xxi 


PAGE 

Thy  voice  is  heard.  (Princess.) 414 

Tiresias 593 

Tithonus 106 

Tomorrow , 613 

To , after  reading  a Life  and  Letters.  134 

To , “As  when  with  downcast  eyes  ” 28 

To , “ Clearheaded  friend  ” 10 

To , with  the  following  Poem 48 

To  Dante .' 592 

To  E.  Fitzgerald . 593 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece 135 

To  H.R.H.  Princess  Beatrice 639 

To  J.  M.  K 28 

To  J.  S 67 

To  Mary  Boyle 676 

To  one  who  ran  down  the  English 686 

To  Princess  Frederica 592 

To  Professor  Jebb 651 

To  the  Duke  of  Argyll 637 

To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and  Ava 649 

To  the  Queen j 

To  the  Queen 379 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 182 

To  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield 588 

To  Ulysses 675 

To  Victor  Hugo 589 

To  Virgil 633 

Two  Voices,  The 33 

Ulysses 104 

Vastness 658 

Victim,  The 186 

Village  Wife,  The 567 

Vision  of  Sin,  The 131 

Voice  and  the  Peak,  The 188 

Voyage,  The 12s 

Voyage  of  Maeldune,  The 583 

Wages i88 

Walking  to  the  Mail 89 

Wan  sculptor,  weepest  thou.  (Early 

Sonnets.)....* 39 

Welcome  to  Alexandra 172 

Welcome  to  Marie  Alexandrovna 172 

What  does  little  birdie  say  ? 160 

Will 183 

Will  Waterproof’s  Lyrical  Monologue...  122 

Window,  The 193 

Wreck,  The 597 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho’  ill  at  ease 69 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


Revered , beloved — 0 you  that  hold 
A nobler  office  upon  earth 
Than  arms , or  power  of  brains , or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  Icings  of  old , 

Victoria , — smce  3/owr  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  that  utter  d nothing  base; 

And  should  your  greatness , and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire , yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 
If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there; 

Then  — while  a sweeter  music  wakes , 

And  thro ’ wild  March  the  throstle  calls9 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 
The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes - — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song ; 

For  tho  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 


2 


JO  THE  QUEEN . 


In  vacant  chambers , / 

To^r  kindness.  May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say , 

44  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

“ Her  court  was  pure;  her  life  serene; 

God  gave  her  peace;  her  land  reposed ; 
A thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother , Wife,  and  Queen; 

“ And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 

Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 
The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

“ By  shaping  some  august  decree , 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still 
Broad-based  upon  her  peoples  will9 
And  compass'd  by  the  inviolate  seal 


March,  1851. 


JUVENILIA, 


CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 

I. 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 

ii. 

At  eye  the  beetle  boometh 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 

At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 
About  the  moss’d  headstone ; 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh 
And  looketh  down  alone. 

Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 
The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 
The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 

Then  will  the  stieam  be  aweary  of 
flowing 

Under  my  eye  ? 

Vhen  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of 
blowing 
Over  the  sky  ? 


When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of 
fleeting  ? 

When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of 
beating  1 
And  nature  die  ? 

Never,  oh  ! never,  nothing  will  die; 
The  stream  flows, 

The  wind  blows, 

The  cloud  fleets, 

The  heart  beats, 

Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die ; 

All  things  will  change 
Thro*  eternity. 

’Tis  the  world’s  winter; 

Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago  ; 

Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 

But  spring,  a new  comer, 

A spring  rich  and  strange, 

Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 

Thro’  and  thro’, 

Here  and  there, 

Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  fill’d  with  life  anew. 

The  world  was  never  made ; 

It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 
So  let  the  wind  range  ; 

For  even  and  morn 
Ever  will  be 
Thro’  eternity. 

Nothing  was  born ; 

Nothing  will  die ; 

All  things  will  change. 


4 


ALL  THINGS  WiLL  DIE . 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 

Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its 
flowing 

Under  my  eye ; 

Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds 
are  blowing 
Over  the  sky. 

One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are 
fleeting ; 

Every  heart  this  May  morning  in  joy- 
ance  is  beating 
Full  merrily ; 

Yet  all  things  must  die. 

The  stream  will  cease  to  flow ; 

The  wind  will  cease  to  blow ; 

The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 

The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 

For  all  things  must  die. 

All  things  must  die. 

Spring  will  come  never  more. 

Oh ! vanity ! 

Death  waits  at  the  door. 

See ! our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  the  merrymaking. 
We  are  call’d  — we  must  go. 

Laid  low,  very  low, 

In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 

The  merry  glees  are  still ; 

voice  of  the  bird 
Shall  no  more  be  heard, 

Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 

Oh!  misery! 

Hark ! death  is  calling 
While  I speak  to  ye, 

The  jaw  is  falling, 

The  red  cheek  paling, 

The  strong  limbs  failing; 

Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing ; 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 

Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell : 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 

The  old  earth 
Had  a birth, 

A3  all  men  know, 

Long  ago. 

And  the  old  earth  must  die* 

. So  let  the  warm  winds  range, 

And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Thro’  eternity. 


All  things  were  born. 

Ye  will  come  never  more, 
For  all  things  must  die. 


LEONINE  ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming 
the  broad  valley  dimm’d  in  the 
gloaming : 

Thoro’  the  black-stemm’d  pines  only 
the  far  river  shines. 

Creeping  thro’  blossomy  rushes  and 
bowers  of  rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  bab- 
ble and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly ; the 
grasshopper  carolleth  clearly; 

Deeply  the  wood-dove  coos ; shrilly 
the  owlet  halloos ; 

Winds  creep ; dews  fall  chilly : in  her 
first  sleep  earth  breathes  stilly 

Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  water-gnat 
murmur  and  mourn. 

Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth : the  glim 
mering  water  out-floweth : 

Twin  peaks  shadow’d  with  pine  slop* 
to  the  dark  hyaline. 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  betweei 
the  two  peaks  ; but  the  Naiad 

Throbbing  in  mild  unrest  holds  hin 
beneath  in  her  breast. 

The  ancient  poetess  singeth,  that  Hes 
perus  all  things  bringeth, 

Smoothing  the  wearied  mind:  brim 
me  my  love,  Rosalind. 

Thou  comest  morning  or  even;  sh< 
cometh  not  morning  or  even. 

False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  ii 
my  sweet  Rosalind  *? 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS 

OF  A SECOND-RATE  SENSITIVE  MIND. 

0 God  ! my  God  ! have  mercy  now. 

1 faint,  I fall.  Men  say  that  Thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me, 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn, 

I And  that  my  sin  was  as  a thorn 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A SENSITIVE  MIND . 


5 


Dnong  the  thorns  fchat  girt  Thy  brow, 
bounding  Thy  soul.  — That  even  now, 
n this  extremest  misery 
)f  ignorance,  I should  require 
^ sign  ! and  if  a bolt  of  fire 
Vould  rive  the  slumbrous  summer 
noon 

Vhile  I do  pray  to  Thee  alone, 

Tiink  my  belief  would  stronger  grow  : 
s not  my  human  pride  brought  low  ? 
?he  boastings  of  my  spirit  still? 

Tie  joy  I had  in  my  freewill 
111  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like 
grown  ? 

\.nd  what  is  left  to  me,  but  Thou 
\md  faith  in  Thee  ? Men  pass  me  by ; 
Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 
^nd  children  all  seem  full  of  Thee ! 
Vnd  women  smile  with  saint-like 
glances 

nke  Thine  own  mother's  when  she 
bow’d 

ibove  Thee,  on  that  happy  morn 
AHien  angels  spake  to  men  aloud, 
hid  Thou  and  peace  to  earth  were 
born, 

Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 
one  of  them  : my  brothers  they  : 
brothers  in  Christ  — a world  of  peace 
hid  confidence,  day  after  day; 
hid  trust  and  hope  till  things  should 
} cease, 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

low  sweet  to  have  a common  faith ! 
?o  hold  a common  scorn  of  death ! 
hid  at  a burial  to  hear 
Che  creaking  cords  which  wound  and 
P eat 

nto  my  human  heart,  whene’er 
Darth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not 
fear, 

Vith  hopeful  grief,  were  passing 
sweet ! 

Tirice  happy  state  again  to  be 
"he  trustful  infant  on  the  knee  \ 

Vdio  lets  his  rosy  fingers  play 
tbout  his  mother’s  neck,  and  knows 
iothing  beyond  his  mother’s  eyes, 
"hey  comfort  him  by  night  and  day ; 
"hey  light  his  little  life  alway ; 


He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes ; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death; 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is; 

And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 

Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth, 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell, 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart, 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth, 

Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air, 

Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtil,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 
Which  mixing  with  the  infant’s  blood, 
Fulfils  him  with  beatitude. 

Oh  ! sure  it  is  a special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt, 

To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple-mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant’s  dawning  year. 

Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 
Propt  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 
In  thine,  I listen’d  to  thy  vows. 

For  me  outpour’d  in  holiest  prayer  — 
For  me  unworthy ! — and  beheld 
Thy  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 

And  the  clear  spirit  shining  thro’. 

Oh ! wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 
From  roots  which  strike  so  deep  ? why 
dare 

Paths  in  the  desert  ? Could  not  I 
Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast 
knelt, 

To  the  earth  — until  the  ice  would 
melt 

Here,  and  I feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  rear’d  — to  brush 
the  dew 

From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay  ? 
Myself  ? Is  it  thus  ? Myself  ? Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee  ? But  why 
Prevail’d  not  thy  pure  prayers  ? Why 
pray 

To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not?  Great  in  faith,  and 
*t*ong 


6 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A SENSITIVE  MIND. 


Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard.  What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Thro’  utter  dark  a full-sail’d  skiff, 
Unpiloted  i’  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk!  I know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong, 

That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive, 

In  deep  and  daily  prayers  would’st 
strive 

To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 

Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur 
still  — 

“ Bring  this  lamb  back  into  Thy  fold, 
My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  Thy  will.” 
Would’st  tell  me  I must  brook  the  rod 
And  chastisement  of  human  pride ; 
That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 
Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God ! 
That  hitherto  I had  defied 
And  had  rejected  God  — that  grace 
Would  drop  from  his  o’er-brimming 
love, 

As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 

If  I would  pray  — that  God  would 
move 

And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and 
thence, 

Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 
Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which  would  keep  green  hope’s  life. 
Alas ! 

I think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Nor  sojourn  in  me.  I am  void, 

Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ?■  Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moor’d  and  rested  ? Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope 
waves 

After  a tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a mountain  tarn  ? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  mere  ? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and 
paves 


The  other  ? I am  too  forlorn, 

Too  shaken  : my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Moved  from  beneath  with  doubt  and 
fear. 

“ Yet,”  said  I in  my  morn  of  youth, 
The  unsunn’d  freshness  of  my  strength. 
When  I went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 

" It  is  man’s  privilege  to  doubt, 

If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length, 
Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved  of 
change, 

An  image  with  profulgent  brows, 

And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 
Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 
Of  lawless  airs,  at  last  stood  out 
This  excellence  and  solid  form 
• Of  constant  beauty.  For  the  Ox 
Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 
The  horned  valleys  all  about, 

And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 
In  summer  heats,  with  placid  lows 
Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 
About  his  hoof.  And  in  the  flocks 
The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year, 

And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere, 

And  answers  to  his  mother’s  calls 
From  the  flower’d  furrow.  In  a time, 
Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 
Thro5  his  warm  heart ; and  then,  from 
whence 

He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 
A shadow;  and  his  native  slope, 
Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 
Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes, 
And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 
His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 
Shall  man  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 
As  a young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 
Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on  ? 
Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 
Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that 
seem, 

And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 
If  one  there  be  ? ” Ay  me  ! I fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  Idols.  Yet,  riy  God. 
Whom  call  I Idol  ? Let  Thy  tave 
Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 


THE  KRAKEN. 


7 


Be  unreme'mber’d,  and  Thy  love 
Enlightenjme.  Oh  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

O weary  life  ! O weary  death ! 

O spirit  and  heart  made  desolate ! 
O damned  vacillating  state ! 


THE  KRAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper 
•deep ; 

Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 

His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded 
sleep 

The  Kraken  sleepeth:  faintest  sun- 
lights flee 

About  his  shadowy  sides  : above  him 
swell 

Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth 
and  height ; 

And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 

From  many  a wondrous  grot  and 
secret  cell 

Unnumber’d  and  enormous  polypi 

Winnow  with  giant  arms  the  slumber- 
ing green. 

There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 

Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his 
sleep, 

Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the 
deep ; 

Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be 
seen, 

In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the 
surface  die. 


SONG. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 
Leaning  upon  the  ridged  sea, 
Breathed  low  around.the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  preludes,  “ We  are 
free.” 

The  streams  through  many  a lilied  row 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea, 
Low-tinkled  with  a bell-like  flow 

Atween  the  blossoms,  “ We  are 

£ ' 


LILIAN. 

i. 

Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 

When  I ask  her  if  she  love  me. 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me. 
Laughing  all  she  can  ; 

She’ll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 

ii. 

When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 

She,  looking  thro’  and  thro’  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 

So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes. 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks; 
Then  away  she  flies. 

hi. 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian  ! 

Gayety  without  eclipse 
Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian  : 

Thro’  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 
When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth: 
Prithee  weep.  May  Lilian. 

IV. 

Praying  all  I can, 

If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 

Like  a rose-leaf  I will  crush  thee, 
Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 

i. 

Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright, 
but  fed 

With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of 
chastity, 

Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended 
hy 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  trans 
lucent  fane 


8 


MARIANA. 


Of  her  still  spirit ; locks  not  wide-dis- 
pread, 

Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her 
head ; 

Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually 
did  reign 

The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity. 

Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 
Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and 
head, 

The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 
Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pure 
lowlihead. 

ii. 

The  intuitive  decision  of  a bright 

And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  from  crime  ; a prudence  to 
withhold ; 

The  laws  of  marriage  character’d 
in  gold 

Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her 
, heart ; 

A love  still  burning  upward,  giving 
light 

To  read  those  laws;  an  accent  very 
low 

In  blandishment,  but  a most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  dis- 
tress, 

Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho’ 
undescried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme 
gentleness 

Thro’  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious 
pride ; 

A courage  to  endure  and  to  obey ; 

A hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 

Crown’d  Isabel,  thro’  all  her  placid  life, 

The  queen  of  marriage,  a most  perfect 
wife. 

hi. 

The  mellow’d  reflex  of  a winter  moon ; 

A clear  stream  flowing  with  a muddy 
one, 

Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  in 
purer  light 

The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward 
brother*. 

A leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 


Clothing  the  stem,  wliich  else  had 
fallen  quite 

With  cluster’d  flower-bells  and  am- 
brosial orbs 

Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on 
each  other  — 

Shadow  forth  thee  : — the  world 
hath  not  another 

(Tho’  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types 
of  thee, 

And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity} 

Of  such  a finish’d  chasten’d  purity. 


MARIANA. 

“ Mariana  in  the  moated  grange.” 

Measure  for  Measure. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all: 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 
That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable- 
wall. 

The  broken  sheds  look’d  sad  and 
strange : 

Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  “ My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said  ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! ” 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 
Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were 
dried ; 

She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 
Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 

After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the 
sky, 

She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glancedathwartthegloomingflats. 

She  only  said,  “ The  night  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! ” 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl 
crow : 

The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light  : 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen’s  low 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


9 


Oar.  10  to  her  : without  hope  of  change, 
hi  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed 
morn 

About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  “ The  day  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! " 

About  a stone-cast  from  the  wall 
A sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 
The  cluster'd  marish-tnosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a poplar  shook  alway, 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark : 
Tor  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  “ My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! " 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 
And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and 
away, 

In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro. 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 

But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their 
cell, 

The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  “The  night  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! " 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane;  the 
mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot 
shriek'd, 

Or  from  the  crevice  peer’d  about. 

Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  “My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  “I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! " 


The  sparrows  chirrup  on  the  roof, 
The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 
The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense ; but  most  she  loathed  the 
hour 

When  the  thick-moated  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  “ I am  very  dreary, 
He  will  not  come,"  she  said; 
She  wept,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary. 
Oh,  God,  that  I were  dead ! " 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 
With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet. 
The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 
And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines : 

A faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 

An  empty  river-bed  before. 

And  shallows  on  a distant  shore, 

In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  “ Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan, 
And  “Ave  Mary,"  night  and 
morn, 

And  “ Ah,"  she  sang,  “ to  be  all 
alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  lovfc  for- 
lorn." 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew. 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro'  rosy  taper  Angers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest 
brown 

To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear 
Still  lighted  in  a secret  shrine, 

Her  melancholy  eyes  divine. 

The  home  of  woe  without  a tear. 

And  “ Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 
“ Madonna,  sad  is  night  and 
morn," 

And  “Ah,"  she  sang,  “to  be  all 
alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 
Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea. 


10 


TO 


Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 
Before  Our  Lady  murmur’d  she  ; 
Complaining,  “ Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load.” 

And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow’d 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

“ Is  this  the  form,”  she  made  her 
moan, 

“ That  won  his  praises  night 
and  morn  ? ” 

And  “ Ah,”  she  said,  “ but  I wake 
alone, 

I sleep  forgotten,  I wake  for- 
lorn.” 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would 
bleat, 

Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat, 
On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 

And  seem’d  knee-deep  in  mountain 
grass, 

And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass, 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 

She  breathed  in  sleep  a lower 
moan, 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and 
morn, 

She  thought,  “ My  spirit  is  here 
alone, 

Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn.” 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a dream  : 

She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke  : the  babble  of  the  stream 
Tell,  and,  without,  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sear  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 

And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 

She  whisper’d,  with  a stifled  moan 

More  inward  than  at  night  or 
morn, 

“ Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here 
alone 

Live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn.” 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 
Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  “ Love,”  they  said,  “ must  needs 
be  true, 


To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth.” 

An  image  seem’d  to  pass  the  door. 

To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say 
“ But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away. 

So  be  alone  forevermore.” 

“ O cruel  heart,”  she  changed  her 
tone, 

“ And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is 
scorn, 

Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  die  for- 
lorn ? ” 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 
An  image  seem’d  to  pass  the  door. 

To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

“ But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more.” 

And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 

The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

“ The  day  to  night,”  she  made  her 
moan, 

“ The  day  to  night,  the  night  to 
morn, 

And  day  and  night  I am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn.” 

At  eve  a dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a sound  as  of  the  sea ; 

Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung. 
And  lean’d  upon  the  balcony. 

There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter’d  on  her  tears, 
And  deepening  thro’  the  silent 
spheres 

Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 
“ The  night  comes  on  that  knows 
not  morn, 

When  1 shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 


TO . 

i. 

Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful 
scorn, 

Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts 
atwain 


MADELINE. 


11 


The  knots  that  tangle  human 
creeds, 

The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and 
strain 

The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Bay-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a glance  so  keen  as  thine : 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine. 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

ii. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit; 
Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited 
brow  : 

Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not 
now 

With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 

Nor  martyr  - flames,  nor  trenchant 
swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie ; 

A gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die, 
Shot  thro'  and  thro*  with  cunning 
words. 

hi. 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost 
need, 

Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 

Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold. 

And  weary  with  a finger's  touch 
Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning- 
speed  ; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old. 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 
Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  livelong 
night, 

And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 

i. 

rHou  are  not  steep'd  in  golden  lan- 
guors, 

No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 

Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou  dost 
range, 

Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forme  of  flitting  change. 


ii. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore. 

Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore! 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  : but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter. 
Who  may  know  ? 

I rowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine. 

Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,'  are 
thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another, 

Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine  ; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 

Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

hi. 

A subtle,  sudden  flame, 

By  veering  passion  fann'd, 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances  : 
When  I would  kiss  thy  hand, 

The  flush  of  anger'd  shame 

O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances. 

And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A sudden-curved  frown : 

But  when  I turn  away, 

Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest ; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 

All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 
In  a golden-netted  smile ; 

Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 

If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 

Again  thou  blushest  angerly  ; 

And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A sudden-curved  frown. 


SONG : THE  OWL. 

i. 

W HEN  ca  ts  run  home  and  light  is  come, 
And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 


12 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

ii. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown 
hay, 

And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the 
thatch 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I. 

Thy  tuwhits  are  lull’d,  I wot, 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 

Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 

So  took  echo  with  delight. 

So  took  echo  with  delight, 

That  her  voice  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a fainter  tone. 

ii. 

I would  mock  thy  chant  anew ; 

But  I cannot  mimic  it ; 

Not  a whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

With  a lengthen’d  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo- 
o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE 
ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

When  the  breeze  of  a joyful  dawn 
blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 

The  tide  of  time  flow’d  back  with  me, 
The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time ; 
And  many  a sheeny  summer-morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I was  borne, 

By  Bagdat’s  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old  ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I and  sworn, 


For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro’ 

The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and 
clove 

The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 

By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 

The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 

Gold  glittering  thro’  lamplight  dim. 
And  broider’d  sofas  on  each  side: 

In  sooth  it  was  a goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,  where  clear-stemm’d  platanp 
guard 

The  outlet,  did  I turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which 
crept 

Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 

A goodly  place,  a goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A motion  from  the  river  won  . 

Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro’  the  star-strown  calm. 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I enter’d,  from  the  clearer  light; 
Imbower’d  vaults  of  pillar  d palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which,  as  they 
clomb 

Heavenward,  were  stay’d  beneath  the 
dome 

Of  hollow  boughs . — A goodly  time 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward  ; and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a lake. 

From  the  green  rivage  many  a fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 

Thro’  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain’s  flow 
Fall’n  silver-chiming,  seemed  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS . 


13 


A goodly  place,  a goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid.  \ 

Above  thro'  many  a bowery  turn 
A walk  with  vary -color’d  shells 
Wander’d  engrain’d.  On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 

Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon  grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung, 

The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung  ; 
Not  he : but  something  which  possess’d 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress’d, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber’d:  the  solemn  palms  were 
ranged 

Above,  unwoo’d  of  summer  wind: 

A sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Hush’d  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold- 
green, 

Ind,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
the  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.  A lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

)ark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
)istinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
rrew  darker  from  that  under-flame . 
o,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 

V ith  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
a marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
pon  me,  as  in  sleep  I sank 
i cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 
Entranced  with  that  place  and  time, 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Thence  thro’  the  garden  I was  drawn  — 
A realm  of  pleasance,  many  a mound, 
And  many  a shadow-checker’d  lawn 
Full  of  the  city’s  stilly  sound, 

And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing 
round 

The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 

Thick, rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 

Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 
In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  visions  unawares 
From  the  long  alley’s  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 

Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 

After  the  fashion  of  the  time. 

And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 

A million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look’d  to  shame 
The  hollow- vaulted  dark,  and  stream’d 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem’d 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 
Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous 
time 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 

Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony, 

In  many  a dark  delicious  curl, 

Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone ; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 

Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Airaschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 

Pure  silver,  underpropt  a rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 


14 


ODE  TO  MEMORY . 


Down-droop’d,  in  many  a floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper’d 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a cloth  ot 
gold.  . , 

Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr  d 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 

Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I saw  him  — in  his  golden  prime, 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 

ADDRESSED  TO  • 

I. 

Thou  who  stealest  fire, 

From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 

To  glorify  the  present ; oh,  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire  ! 

Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

I faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

ii. 

Come  not  as  thou  earnest  of  late, 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day  ; but  robed  in  soft- 
en’d light 
Of  orient  state. 

Whilom  thou  earnest  with  the  morn- 
ing mist, 

Even  as  a maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn 
have  kiss’d. 

When,  she,  as  thou, 

Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely 
freight 

Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest 
shoots  , 

Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  oi 
fruits, 

Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 

hi. 

Whilom  thou  earnest  with  the  morn 
ing  mist, 

And  with  the  evening  cloud, 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my 
open  breast 

(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the 
rudest  wind 


Never  grow  sear, 

When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the 
mind, 

Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the 
year). 

Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 

In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken 
rest 

Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant 
Hope. 

The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught 
from  thee 

The  light  of  thy  great  presence ; and 
the  cope 

Of  the  half-attain’d  futurity, 

Tho’  deep  not  fathomless, 

Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars 
which  tremble 

O’er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  in- 
fancy. 

Small  thought  was  there  of  life’s  dis- 
tress ; 

For  sure  she  deem’d  no  mist  of  earth 
could  dull 

Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and 
beautiful : 

Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven’s 
spheres, 

Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing 
from 

The  illimitable  years. 

0 strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

1 faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

IV. 

Come  forth,  I charge  thee,  arise,  # 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad 
eyes ! 

Thou  coinest  not  with  showers  or 
flaunting  vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 

Divinest  Memory ! 

Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  water- 
fall 

Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 

Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried  : 

Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the 
gray  hill-side, 

The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 

That  stand  beside  my  father  s door. 


SONG. 


15 


And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed 
sand, 

Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 
In  every  elbow  and  turn, 

The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  wood- 
land, 

0 ! hither  lead  thy  feet ! 

Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong 
bleat 

Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wat- 
tled folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds. 

When  the  first  matin-song  hath 
waken'd  loud 

Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
F orth  gushes  from  beneath  a low-hung 
cloud. 

v. 

Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed ; 

And  like  a bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led, 

Withmusicandsweetshowers 
Of  festal  flowers. 

Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist 
Memory, 

In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-workof  wrought 
gold ; 

Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first 
) essay, 

Amd  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
ti  Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight 
falls 

Upon  the  storied  walls  ; 

For  the  discovery 

And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased 
thee, 

.hat  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of 
fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
vith  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
he  first-born  of  thy  genius.  Artist- 
like, 

ver  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
n the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days : 


No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bush- 
less Pike, 

Or  even  a sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 

Or  even  a lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretch  d wide  and  wild  the  waste 
enormous  marsh, 

Where  from  the  frequent  bridge. 

Like  emblems  of  infinity, 

'1  he  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to 
sky; 

Or  a garden  bower'd  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 
Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight 
grots. 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender: 

Whither  in  after  life  retired 
From  brawling  storms, 

From  weary  wind, 

With  youthful  fancy  re-inspired, 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all 
forms 

Of  the  many-sided  mind, 

And  those  whom  passion  hath  not 
blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 

Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A crown,  a sceptre,  and  a throne ! 

0 strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

1 faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 

i. 

A spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing 
bowers : 

To  himself  he  talks ; 

For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and 
sigh 

In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heaw 
stalks  * 


16 


A CHARACTER. 


Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i’  the  earth  so 
chilly; 

Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

ii. 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hush’d,  and ^close, 

As  a sick  man’s  room  when  he  taketn 
repose 

An  hour  before  death ; 

My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole 
soul  grieves 

At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting 
leaves, 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box 
beneath, 

And  the  year’s  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i*  the  earth  so 
chilly ; 

Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily 


A CHARACTER. 

With  a half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  “ The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe  w 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things. 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty ; that  the  dull 
Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  m air ; 
Then  looking  as  ’twere  in  a glass. 

He  smooth’d  his  chin  and  sleek  d his 
hair, 

And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue  : not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by : 

And  with  a sweeping  of  the  arm, 

And  a lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 


Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass’d  human  mysteries, 

And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes, 

And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress’d  as  he  were  meek, 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold : 

Upon  himself  himself  did  feed: 

Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold, 

And  other  than  his  form  of  creed, 
With  chisell’d  features  clear  and  sleek. 


the  poet. 

The  poet  in  a golden  clime  was  born, 
With  golden  stars  above; 

Dower’d  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the 
scorn  of  scorn,, 

The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro’  life  and  death,  thro 
good  and  ill,  M 

He  saw  thro’  his  own  soul, 

The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  wil 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay : with  echoing  feet  he 
threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame : 

The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts 
were  headed 
And  wing’d  with  flame. 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  sil 
ver  tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a flight, 

From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  whicl 
bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 

Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  belt 
flower, 

The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springin? 
forth  anew 

Where’er  they  fell,  behold, 


THE  POET'S  MIND. 


17 


Like  to  the  mother  plant  .in  sem- 
blance, grew 
A flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnish’d  all  abroad  to 
fling 

Thy  winged  shafts  of  truth, 

To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the 
breathing  spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs 
with  beams, 

Tho  one  did  fling  the  fire. 

Heaven  flow’d  upon  the  soul  in  many 
dreams 

Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth 
the  world 

a jLuke>one  great  £arcJen  show’d, 

And  thro  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 
upcurl’d, 

Rare  sunrise  flow’d. 

And  Freedom  rear’d  in  that  august 
sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow. 

When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burn- 
ing eyes 

Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden 
robes 

Sunn’d  by  those  orient  skies : 

->ut  round  about  the  circles  of  the 
globes 

Of  her  keen  eyes 

^nd  in  her  raiment’s  hem  was  traced 
in  flame 

Wisdom,  a name  to  shake 
dl  evil  dreams  of  power — a sacred 
name. 

And  when  she  spake, 

>er  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they 
ran,  J 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thun- 
der 

rhich  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of 
man, 

Making  earth  wonder, 


So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words. 
No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl’d 
Rut  one  poor  poet’s  scroll,  and  with 
his  word 

She  shook  the  world. 


THE  POET’S  MIND. 

i. 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet’s  mind 
With  thy  shallow  wit: 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet’s  mind ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
-blowing  like  a crystal  river; 

Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 

ii. 

^aA  n ^r°W  ^ S0Phist,  come  not  anear 
All  the  place  is  holy  ground ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 
Come  not  here. 

Holy  water  will  I pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it 
around. 

The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel 
cheer. 

In  your  eye  there  is  death, 

There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  heai' 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird’s  din. 

In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry 
bird  chants. 

It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came 
in. 

In  the  middle  leaps  a fountain 
Bike  sheet  lightning, 

Ever  brightening 
a J^ith  a low  melodi°us  thunder; 

11  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
-brom  the  brain  of  the  purple  moun- 
tain 

Which  stands  in  the  distance  yon- 
der : 

It  springs  on  a level  of  bowery  lawn 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from 
Heaven  above. 


18 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 


And  it  sings  a song  of  undying  love  , 

And  yet,  tho’  its  voice  be  so  clear  and 
full. 

You  never  would  hear  it;  your  ears 
are  so  dull ; 

So  keep  where  you  are : you  are  tout 
with  sin ; 

It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you 
came  in. 


THE  SEA-E AIRIES. 

Slow  sail’d  the  weary  mariners  and 
saw,  , i , « 

Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning foam, 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 

To  littleharps  of  gold ; and  while  they 
mused 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  tear, 

Shrill  music  reach’d  them  on  the  mid- 
dle sea. 


Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 
away  'i  fly  no  more. 

Whither  away  from  the  high  green 
field,  and  the  happy  blossoming 
shore  ^ 

Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  foun- 
tain  calls: 

Down  shower  the  gambolling  water- 
falls 

Erom  wandering  over  the  lea  : 

Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery -crimson 
shells,  , , . 

And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover- 
hill  swells 

High  over  the  full-toned  sea : 

0 hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your 
sails, 

Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  : 

Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and 

play ; .. 

Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day: 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 

Eor  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and 

And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales, 


And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and 

bay,  - 

And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on 
the  land 

Over  the  islands  free ; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of 
the  sand ; 

Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 

And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising 
wave,  < 

And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and 

And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be : 

O hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our 
lords, 

Eor  merry  brides  are  we  : 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speas. 
sweet  words : 

O listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee: 

O listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the 
golden  chords 
Huns  up  the  ridged  sea. 

Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a shore 
All  the  world  o’er,  all  the  world  o er  > 
Whither  away  ? listen  and  stay 
mariner,  mariner,  fly  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide 
Careless  tenants  they ! 


ii. 


All  within  is  dark  as  night  * 

In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 

So  frequent  on  its  lunge  before 


hi. 


Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close. 
Or  thro’  the  windows  we  shall  s 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 
Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 


Come  away : no  more  of  mirtK  , 
Is  hore  or  merry-making  sounc 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 


The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

v. 

Come  away : for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell; 

But  in  a city  glorious  — • 

A great  and  distant  city  — have  bought 
A mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  staid  with  usl 


THE  DYING  SWAN, 
r. 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 

W )iich  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a dying  swan, 

And  loudly  did  lament. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Sver  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 

ii. 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 
Hid  white  against  the  cold-white  sky, 
>hone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 

Lid  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did 
sigh ; 

d)ov€;  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 

i Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  thro*  the  marish  green 

and  still 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 
hot  ovei  with  purple,  and  green,  and 
yellow. 

> hi. 

he  wild  swan’s  death-hymn  took  the 
soul 

f that  waste  place  with  joy 
idden  in  sorrow : at  first  to  the  ear 
tie  warble  was  low,  and  full  and 
clear ; 

nd  floating  about  the  under-sky,  • 
'evading  in  weakness,  the  coronach 

ii  stole 


Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear ; 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 

With  a music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow’d  forth  on  a carol  free  and  bold; 

As  when  a mighty  people  rejoice 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and 
harps  of  gold. 

And  the  tumult  of'  their  acclaim  is 
roll’d 

Ihro  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the 
evening  star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clamber- 
ing weeds, 

And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and 
dank, 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing 
reeds, 

And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echo- 
ing  bank, 

And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that 
throng 

The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 

Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song! 


A DIRGE. 

i. 

Now  is  done  thy  long  day’s  work ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast/ 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 

Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  graven 
Let  them  rave. 

ii. 

Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 

Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O’er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

hi. 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 


20 


LOVE  AND  DEATH 


Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

IV. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee  ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor  s tear. 

Let  them  rave. 

Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O’er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

v. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale, 

And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 

These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro’  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

VI. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine  ; 

The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 

Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 

As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

VII. 

Wild  words  wander  here  and  there : 
God’s  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused  : 

But  let  them  rave. 

The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was 
gathering  light 

Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  1 ara- 
dise,  . 

And  all  about  him  roll’d  his  lustrous 
eyes ; . . . 

When,  turning  round  a cassia,  lull  in 
view, 

Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a 
yew, 


And  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his 
sight : # 

“You  must  begone,”  said  ^ Death, 

“ these  walks  are  mine.” 

Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans 
for  flight ; 

Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  “ This  hour  is 
thine : 

Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as 
the  tree 

Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all 
beneath, 

So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of 
death ; 

The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree 
shall  fall,  „ 

But  I shall  reign  forever  over  all. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 
My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 
Oriana. 

There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 

When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  nbb  a 
with  snow, 

And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds 
blow, 

Oriana, 

Alone  I wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 
Oriana, 

At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 
Oriana : 

Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 
Oriana ; 

Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

| Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 
Oriana, 

Ere  I rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 

While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sigh 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

• Oriana, 

I to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 


21 


She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 
Oriana  : 

She  watch’d  my  crest  among  them  all 
Oriana : 

She  saw  me  light,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  stept  a foeman  tall, 
Oriana, 

Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 
Oriana. 

The  hitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 

The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 
Oriana  : 

The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 

And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my 
bride, 

Oriana ! 

Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 
Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 
Oriana. 

Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle’s  brays, 
Oriana. 

Oh  ! deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen’d  in  its  place, 

Oriana ; 

But  I was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb’d  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 

How  could  I rise  and  come  away, 
Oriana  ? 

How  could  I look  upon  the  day  ? 

They  should  have  stabb’d  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana  — 

They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 
Oriana. 

) breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 
Oriana ! 

> pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 
Oriana ! 

hou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
nd  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek' 
Oriana : 

Hiat  wantest  thou  ? whom  dost  thou 
seek, 

Oriana  ? 


I cry  aloud : none  hear  my  cries, 
Oriana. 

Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skiei* 
Oriana. 

I feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes 
Oriana. 

Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 
Oriana. 

O cursed  hand  ! 0 cursed  blow  ! 
Oriana ! 

O happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 

All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 

A weary,  weary  way  I go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the 
# sea, 

Oriana, 

I walk,  I dare  not  think  of  thee, 
Oriana. 

Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

X dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 

I hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 

Jrlaying  mad  pranks  along  the  heathy, 
leas; 

Two  strangers  meeting  at  a festival  ; 

Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard 
wall ; 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with 
golden  ease; 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a gray 
church-tower, 

Wash’d  with  still  rains  and  daisy  blos- 
somed; 

Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and 
bred  ; 

So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  houx 
to  hour. 


the  merman . 


22 


the  merman. 

I. 

Who  would  be 
A merman  bold, 

Sitting  alone, 

Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea, 

With  a crown  of  gold. 
On  a throne  1 


Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine  . 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss  d me 
Laughingly,  laughingly. 

Oh  l what  a happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green . 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


ii. 


I would  be  a merman  bold, 

I would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the 
day ; ... 

I would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a voice 
of  power; 

But  at  night  I would  roam  abroad  and 

With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the 

Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea- 
flower;  _ . A ♦ 

And  holding  them  back  by  their  flow 
ing  locks 

I would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss  d 
me 

Laughingly,  laughingly ; 

And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight 
and  high, 

Chasing  each  other  merrily. 


hi.  | 

There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 

But  the  wave  would  make  music  above  | 
us' afar  — 

Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic 
night  — 

Neither  moon  nor  star. 

We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy 
dells,  , 

Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily  ; 

They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  span- 
gles and  shells,  , 

Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands 
between, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily: 

But  1 would  throw  to  them  hack  in 
mine 


THE  MERMAID. 


Who  would  be 
A mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 

Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 

In  a golden  curl 
With  a comb  of  pearl, 
On  a throne  % 


I would  he  a mermaid  fair  ; 

I would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  o) 

With  a comtfof  pearl  I would  coml 
my  hair ; _ _ . 

And  still  as  I comh’d  I would  sing  an- 

“ Who  is^it  loves  me  1 who  loves  no. 

I woulcfcomb  my  hair  till  my  ringlet 
would  fall 

I Low  adown,  low  adown, 

From  under  my  starry  sea-hud  crow 
1 Low  adown  and  around,. 

And  I should  look  like  a fountain  - 
gold 

Springing  alone 
With  a shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall ; 

Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  s 
Erom  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  cent] 

Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfq 
Bound  the  hall  where  I sate,  and  lo 
in  at  the  gate 

With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the 
of  me. 


ADELINE. 


23 


And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 

Would  feel  their  immortality 

Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


ADELINE. 


But  at  night  I would  wander  away, 
away, 

I would  fling  on  each  side  my  low- 
flowing  locks, 

And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and 
piay 

With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the 
rocks ; 

We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide 
and  seek, 

On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crim- 
son shells. 

Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the 
sea. 

But  if  any  came  near  I would  call,  and 
shriek, 

And  adown  the  steep  like  a wave  I 
would  leap 

Erom  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut 
from  the  dells ; 

For  I would  not  be  kiss’d  by  all  who 
- would  list, 

Df  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the 
i sea  ; 

They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and 
t flatter  me, 

n the  purple  twilights  under  the 
) sea ; 

Sut  the  king  of  them  all  would  carrv 
me, 

V^oo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marrv 
me, 

a the  branching  jaspers  under  the 
sea; 

hen  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
i the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
'ould  curl  round  my  silver  feet 
silently, 

11  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
nd  if  I should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
11  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned 
! and  soft  ’ 

ould  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere 
j of  the  sea, 

1 Poking  down  for  the  love  of 

me. 


Mysteuy  of  mysteries, 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 

Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine. 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 

But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair : 
Ihy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my 
breast. 

Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

ii. 

Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine. 
Like  a lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro’  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a rose-bush  leans  upon, 

Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still. 

As  a Naiad  in  a well, 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day. 

Or  a phantom  two  hours  old 
Of  a maiden  past  away, 

Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold  ? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of 
thine. 

Spiritual  Adeline  ? 


hi. 


What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  ? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  ? 

For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone. 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient 
springs 

Keep  measure  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their 
wings  ? 

Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews  ? 

Or  when  little  airs  arise, 

How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath  ? 

Hast  thou  look’d  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise  ? 

Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreamy  Adeline  ? 


24 


MARGARET \ 


iv. 

Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind. 
Some  spirit  of  a crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 

All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 

What  aileth  thee  1 whom  waitest  thou 

With  thy  soften’d,  shadow’d  brow, 
And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thme, 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  *? 

v. 

Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  f 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the 
morn, 

Dripping  with  Sabaean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn. 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-drooping  twined 
Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still, 

In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill  J 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 

The  senses  with  a still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 
Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spread- 
eth, 

Moving  thro’  a fleecy  night. 

ii. 

You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 
You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and 
bright : 

Lull’d  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow 

light 

Eloat  by  you  on  the  verge  ot 
night. 

hi. 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning 
stars 

The  lion-heart,  Rlantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro’  his  prison 
bars  1 

Exquisite  Margs*  et,  who  can 


MARGARET. 

i. 

O sweet  pale  Margaret, 

O rare  pale  Margaret, 

What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a falling  shower  f 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect 

You? melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  • 1 
From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have 
won 

A tearful  grace,  as  tho’  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent 
cheek, 


The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true 
heart, 

Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  bo 
well  'i 


IV. 

fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 
And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Dur  sorrow,  only  sorrow’s  shade, 
Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away, 
cm  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine, 
ut  more  human  in  your  moods, 
Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline, 
our  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 
Touch’d  with  a somewhat  darker 
hue, 

And  less  aerially  blue, 


ROSALIND. 


25 


But  over-trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 

v. 

0 sweet  pale  Margaret, 

O rare  pale  Margaret, 

Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me 
speak : 

Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek  : 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set, 

The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen. 
Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 

Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 
Where  all  day  long  you  sit 
between 

Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 
Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes 
dawn 

Upon  me  thro*  the  jasmine-leaves. 


ROSALIND. 

i. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes, 
Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height 
of  rapid  flight. 

Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon 
whither. 

Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye. 

Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind  ? 

ii. 

The  quick  lark's  closest-caroll'd 
strains, 

Fhe  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea, 

The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains,  I 
che  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 
fhe  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind, 

Chat  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way, 
o stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 
s not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
fs  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind, 
ou  care  not  for  another's  pains, 


Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 
Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 

Life  shoots  and  glances  thro'  youi 
veins. 

And  flashes  off  a thousand  ways. 
Thro'  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawk-eyes  are  keen  and  bright, 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  thro'  with  pointed  light; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a dancing  rill, 

And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter. 
Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 

hi. 

Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
m7  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind : 
Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies ; 
Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will; 
But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes, 
That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 

And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view. 

Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 
Touch’d  with  sunrise.  We  must  bind 
And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 

Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 

And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  yo?t 
love : 

When  we  have  lured  you  from  above 
And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by 
day  or  night, 

From  North  to  South, 

We'll  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords 
And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 
From  off  your  rosy  mouth. 


ELEANORE. 

i. 

Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not, 

Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to 
English  air, 

For  there  is  nothing  here, 
Winch,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward 
brought, 

Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 

Far  off  from  human  neighborhood, 
Thou  wert  born,  on  a rammet 
morn. 


ELEANORE . 


26 


A mile  beneath  Hie  cedar-wood. 

Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not 
fanned 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken 
glades, 

But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious 
land 

Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating 
shades : 

And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 

The  oriental  fairy  brought, 

At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 

From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 

And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 

And  shadow’d  coves  on  a sunny 
shore, 

The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the 
earth, 

Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 

To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 


ii. 

Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 

Thro’  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a child,  lying  alone, 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gar- 
dens cull’d  — 

A glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 

In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding 
down, 

With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 
Into  dreamful  slumber  lull’d. 

in. 

Who  may  minister  to  thee? 

Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a bower 
Grape-thicken’d  from  the  light,  and 
blinded 

With  many  a deep-liued  bell-like 
flower 

Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 

And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore  1 


IV. 

How  many  full-sail’d  verse  express, 
How  many  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 

Eleanore  ? 

The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  +hy  floating  gracefulness, 

Eleanore  ? 

Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine. 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 

And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 

That  stays  upon  thee  ? For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingie, 
Mingle  ever.  Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  the’ 

They  were  modulated  so 
To  an  unheard  melody, 

Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a sweep 
Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep ; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore  ? 

v. 

I stand  before  thee,  Eleanore ; 

I see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 

I muse,  as  in  a trance,  the  while 
Slowly,  as  from  a cloud  of  gold, 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 

I muse,  as  in  a trance,  whene’er 
The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.  I would  I were 
So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies. 

To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 

Gazing  on  thee  forevermore, 

Serene,  imperial  Eleanore ! 

vi. 

Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 
Gazing,  I seem  to  see 
Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling 
asleep, 

Slowly  awaken’d,  grow  so  full  and  deep 
In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower’d 
quite, 


ELEANORE. 


27 


I cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 

As  tho’  a star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 
Ev'n  while  ve  gaze  on  it, 

Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and 
slowly  grow 

To  a full  face,  there  like  a sun  remain 
Fix'd  — then  as  slowly  fade  again, 
And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was 
before ; 

So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow. 

Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VII. 

As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 
Roof'd  the  world  with  doubt  and 
fear, 

Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky ; 

In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passion- 
less, 

Touch'd  by  thy  spirit’s  mellowness, 
Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 
In  a silent  meditation, 

Falling  into  a still  delight, 

And  luxury  of  contemplation  : 

As  waves  that  up  a quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will  : 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 

With  motions  of  the  outer  sea  : 

And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 

His  bow-string  slacken'd,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding 
thee, 

And  so  would  languish  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VIII. 

3ut  when  I see  thee  roam,  with  tresses 
g unconfined, 

While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 
j Breathes  low  between  the  sunset 
, and  the  moon; 

Or,  in  a shadowy  saloon, 

>n  silken  cushions  half  reclined ; 


I watch  thy  grace ; and  in  its 
place 

My  heart  a charm'd  slumber 
keeps, 

While  I muse  upon  thy  face ; 
And  a languid  fire  creeps 
Thro’  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  : soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  my  name 
Floweth ; and  then,  as  in  a swoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are 
rife, 

My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I lose  my  color,  I lose  my  breath, 
I drink  the  cup  of  a costly  death, 
Brimm'd  with  delirious  draughts  of 
warmest  life. 

I die  with  my  delight,  before 
I hear  what  I would  hear  from 
thee  ; 

Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 

I would  be  dying  evermore, 

So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


i. 

My  life  is  full  of  weary  days, 

But  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 
Nor  wander'd  into  other  ways  : 

I have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I go  : 
Shake  hands  once  more  : I cannot  sink 
So  far  — far  down,  but  I shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 

ii. 

When  in  the  darkness  over  me 

The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape, 
Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree, 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful 
crape, 

But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery 
gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud. 


28  EARL  Y SONNE  TS . 

A — 


And  thro'  damp  holts  new-flush’d 
with  may, 

Ring  sudden  scritches  of  the  jay, 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will, 
And  on  my  clay  her  darnel  grow ; 
Come  only,  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow. 


EARLY  SONNETS. 

i. 

TO  . 

As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse 
and  brood, 

And  ebb  into  a former  life,  or  seem 

To  lapse  far  back  in  some  confused 
dream 

To  states  of  mystical  similitude  ; 

If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his 
chair, 

Ever  the  wonder  waxeth  more  and 
more, 

So  that  we  say,  “ All  this  hath  been 
before, 

All  this  hath  been,  I know  not  when 
or  where.” 

So,  friend,  when  first  I look’d  upon 
your  face, 

Our  thought  gave  answer  each  to  each, 
so  true  — 

Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each — 

That  tho’  I knew  not  in  what  time  or 
place, 

Methought  that  I had  often  met  with 
you, 

And  either  lived  in  either’s  heart  and 
speech. 

ii. 

TO  J.  M.  K. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  — thou 
wilt  be 

A latter  Luther,  and  a soldier-priest 

To  scare  church-harpies  from  the 
master’s  feast ; 

Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need 
of  thee  : 

Thou  art  no  sabbath-drawler  of  old 
Sato's, 


Distill’d  from  some  worm-canker’fl 
homily ; 

But  spurr’d  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 

To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy 

cause 

With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 

The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit- 
drone 

Half  God’s  good  sabbath,  while  the 
worn-out  clerk 

Brow-beats  his  desk  below.  Thou 
from  a throne 

Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the 
dark 

Arrows  of  lightnings.  I will  stand  and 
mark. 

hi. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit,  full 
and  free, 

Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down 
alone, 

With  the  self-same  impulse  wherewith 
he  was  thrown 

From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing 
lea : — 

Which  with  increasing  might  doth  for- 
ward flee 

By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape, 
and  isle, 

And  in  the  njiddle  of  the  green  salt  sea 

Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many 
a mile. 

Mine  be  the  power  which  ever  to  its 
sway 

Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by 
degrees 

May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow ; 

Ev’n  as  the  warm  gulf-stream  of 
Florida 

Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 

The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mex- 
ico. 

IV. 

ALEXANDER. 

Warrior  of  God,  whose  strong  right 
arm  debased 

The  throne  of  Persia,  when  her  Satrap 
bled 

At  Issus  by  the  Syrian  gates,  or  fled 

Beyond  the  Memmian  naphtha-pits, 
disgraced 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


29 


Forever — thee  (thy  pathway  sand- 
erased) 

Gliding  with  equal  crowns  two  ser- 
pents led 

Joyful  to  that  palm-planted  fountain- 
fed 

Ammonian  Oasis  in  the  waste. 

There  in  a silent  shade  of  laurel  brown 

Apart  the  Chamian  Oracle  divine 

Shelter’d  his  unapproached  mysteries  : 

High  things  were  spoken  there,  un- 

1 handed  down ; 

Only  they  saw  thee  from  the  secret 
shrine 

Returning  with  hot  cheek  and  kindled 
eyes. 

v. 

BUONAPARTE. 

He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn 
hearts  of  oak, 

Madman ! — to  chain  with  chains,  and. 
bind  with  bands 

That  island  queen  who  sways  the  floods 
and  lands, 

From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight 
woke, 

When  from  her  wooden  walls,  — lit  by 
sure  hands,  — 

With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings, 
and  with  smoke,  — 

Peal  after  peal,  the  British  battle 
broke, 

Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic 
sands. 

We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when 
Elsinore 

Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant 
sea, 

Rocking  with  shatter’d  spars,  with 
sudden  fires 

Flamed  over:  at  Trafalgar  yet  once 
more 

We  taught  him : late  he  learned 
humility 

Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon 
school’d  with  briers. 

' 

POLAND. 

Jow  long,  O God,  shall  men  be  ridden 
down, 


And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and 
least 

Of  men  ? The  heart  of  Poland  hath 
not  ceased 

To  quiver,  tho’  her  sacred  blood  doth 
drown 

The  fields,  and  out  of  every  smoulder- 
ing town 

Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  in* 
creased, 

Till  that  o’ergrown  Barbarian  in  the 
East 

Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some 
new  crown : — 

Cries  to  Thee,  “ Lord,  how  long  shall 
these  things  be  ? 

How  long  this  icy-hearted  Muscovite 

Oppress  the  region  ? ” Us,  O Just  and 
Good, 

Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn 
in  three ; 

Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should 
aid  the  right  — 

A matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of 
blood! 

VII. 

Caress’d  or  chidden  by  the  slender 
hand, 

And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that, 

Light  Hope  at  Beauty’s  call  would 
perch  and  stand, 

And  run  thro’  every  change  of  sharp 
and  flat ; 

And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat, 

When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy 
band, 

And  chased  away  the  still-recurring 
gnat, 

And  woke  her  with  a lay  from  fairy 
land. 

But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less 
and  less, 

For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders 
far, 

Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love’s  delicious 
creeds ; 

And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness. 

Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a single 
star, 

That  sets  at  twilight  in  a land  of 
reeds. 


30 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


VIII. 

The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 

A nobler  yearning  never  broke  her 
rest 

Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly 
drest, 

And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplish- 
ment : 

Yet  in  the  whirling  dances  as  we  went, 

My  fancy  made  me  for  a moment  blest 

To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous 
breast 

That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  con- 
tent. 

A moment  came  the  tenderness  ot 

The  phantom  of  a wish  that  once  could 
move, 

A ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles  re- 
store — 

For  ah  ! the  slight  coquette,  she  can- 
not love, 

And  if  you  kiss’d  her  feet  a thousand 
years,  . , 

She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and 
care  no  more. 


IX. 

Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take 
the  cast 

Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near 
thee  lie  ? 

O sorro west  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the 
past, 

In  painting  some  dead  fnend  from 
memory  ? 

Weep  on  : beyond  his  object  Love  can 
last : 

His  object  lives  : more  cause  to  weep 
have  I : 

My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing 
fast, 

No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love 
can  die. 

f pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup, 

Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she 
sits  — 

Ah  pity  — hint  it  not  in  human  tones, 

But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it 

up 


With  secret  death  forever,  in  the  pits 

Which  some  green  Christmas  crams 
with  weary  bones. 

x. 

If  I were  loved,  as  I desire  to  be, 

What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of 
the  earth, 

And  range  of  evil  between  death  and 
birth, 

That  I should  fear,  — if  I were  loved 
by  thee  ? 

All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of 
pain 

Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave, 
if  thou  wert  mine, 

As  I have  heard  that,  somewhere  in 
the  main, 

Fresh-water  springs  come  up  through 
bitter  brine. 

’Twere  joy,  not  fear,  claspt  hand-in- 
hand  with  thee, 

To  wait  for  death  — mute  — careless 
of  all  ills, 

Apart  upon  a mountain,  tho’  the  surge 

Of  some  new  deluge  from  a thousand 
hills 

Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into 
the  gorge 

Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 


XI. 

THE  BRIDESMAID. 

O bridesmaid,  ere  the  happy  knot 
was  tied, 

Thine  eyes  so  wept  that  they  could 
hardly  see; 

Thy  sister  smiled  and  said,  “No  tears 
for  me ! 

A happy  bridesmaid  makes  a happy 
bride.” 

And  then,  the  couple  standing  side  by 
side, 

Love  lighted  down  between  them  full 
of  glee, 

And  over  his  left  shoulder  laugh’d  at 
thee, 

“ 0 happy  bridesmaid,  make  a happy 
bride.” 

And  all  -at  once  a pleasant  truth  1 
learn’d, 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


31 


For  while  the  tender  service  made  thee 
weep, 

I loved  thee  for  the  tear  thou  couldst 
not  hide, 

And  prest  thy  hand,  and  knew  the 
press  return’d, 

And  thought,  “ My  life  is  sick  of  sin- 
gle sleep : 

O happy  bridesmaid,  make  a happy 
bride ! ” 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

PART  I. 

On  either  side  of  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 

That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro’  the  field  the  road  runs  by 
To  many-tower’d  Camelot ; 

And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below 
The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro’  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 

Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a space  of  flowers, 

And  the  silent  isle  embowers 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil’d, 

Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail’d. 

By  slow  horses;  and  unhail’d 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail’d 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot: 

But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
)r  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 

)r  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

[;  The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
n among  the  bearded  barley, 
lear  a song  that  echoes  cheerly 
'rom  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower’d  Camelot  : 
ind  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 


Riling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 

1 listening,  whispers  “ ’Tis  the  fairy 
Lady  of  Shalott.” 

PART  II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A magic  web  with  colors  gay. 

She  has  heard  a whisper  say, 

A curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 

She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 

And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro’  a mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 

There  she  sees  the  highway  near 
Winding  down  to  Camelot. 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 

And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls. 
Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a curly  shepherd-lad, 

Or  long-hair’d  page  in  crimson  clad, 
Goes  by  to  tower’d  Camelot; 
And  sometimes  thro’  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror’s  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro’  the  silent  nights 
A funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 
And  music,  went  to  Camelot: 

Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 

Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 

“ I am  half  sick  of  shadows,”  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III. 

A bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 

He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro’  the  leaves 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 


32 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


A red-cross  knight  forever  kneel  d 
To  a lady  in  his  shield, 

That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter’d  free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 

The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon’d  baldric  slung 
A mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 

And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick- je  well’d  shone  the  saddle- 
leather, 

The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn’d  like  one  burningflame  together, 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 

As  often  thro’  the  purple  night, 

Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 

Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight 
glow’d ; 

On  burnish’d  hooves  his  war-horse 
trode ; 

From  underneath  his  helmet  flow  d 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash’d  into  the  crystal  mirror, 

“ Tirra  lirra,”  by  the  river 
Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro’  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 
She  look’d  down  to  Camelot. 

Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
Tbe  mirror  crack’d  from  side  to  side ; 
“ The  curse  is  come  upon  me,  cried 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 


The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  com- 
plaining, 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining, 

Over  tower’d  Camelot ; 

Down  she  came  and  found  a boat 
Beneath  a willow  left  afloat, 

And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river’s  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a trance, 

Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 

With  a glassy  countenance 
Did  she  look  to  Camelot, 

And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white, 

That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro’  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song: 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 

Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 

And  her  eyes  were  darken’d  wholly, 
Turn’d  to  tower’d  Camelot. 

For  ere  she  reach’d  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A gleaming  shape  she  floated  by. 
Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 
Silent  into  Camelot. 

Out  upou  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  liei 
name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ? and  what  is  here  ? 

And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 


THE  7 WO  VOICES. 


33 


Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer  ; 

And  they  cross’d  themselves  for  fear, 
All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 

But  Lancelot  mused  a little  space ; 

He  said,  “ She  has  a lovely  face ; 

God  in  liis  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.” 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

A still  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 

“ Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 

Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ? ” 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I said ; 

“ Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made.” 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply ; 

“ To-day  I saw  the  dragon-fly 
Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

“ An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk : from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail, 

“ He  dried  his  wings : like  gauze  they 
grew ; 

Thro’ crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A living  flash  of  light  he  flew.” 

I said,  “ When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro’  five  cycles  ran, 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

“ She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast.” 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied; 

“ Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride  : 
Look  up  thro’night : the  world  is  wide. 

“ This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 
That  in  a boundless  universe 
Is  boundless  better,  boundless  wcrse. 

“ Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and 
fears 

Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  ? ” 


It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind  : 

“ Tho’  thou  wert  scatter’d  to  the  wind, 
Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind.” 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall : 

“ No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all.” 

To  which  he  answer’d  scoffingly ; 

“ Good  soul ! suppose  I grant  it  thee, 
Who’ll  weep  for  thy  deficiency  i 

“ Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense, 
When  thy  peculiar  difference 
Is  cancell’d  in  the  world  of  sense  ? ” 

I would  have  said,  “ Thou  canst  not 
know,” 

But  my  full  heart,  that  work’d  below, 
Rain’d  thro’  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me : 

“ Thou  art  so  steep’d  in  misery, 
Surely  ’twere  better  not  to  be. 

“ Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 
Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep : 

Thou  canst  not  think,  but  thou  wilt 
weep.” 

I said,  “ The  years  with  change  ad- 
vance : 

If  I make  dark  my  countenance, 

I shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

“Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might 
take, 

Ev’n  yet.”  But  he  : “ What  drug  can 
make 

A wither’d  palsy  cease  to  shake  ? ” 

I wept,  “ Tho’  I should  die,  I know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow ; 

“ And  men,  thro’  novel  spheres  of 
thought 

Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I am  not.” 


34 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


“ Yet,”  said  the  secret  voice,  “ some 
time, 

Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

“ Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for 
light, 

Rapt  after  heaven’s  starry  flight, 
Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and 
night. 

« Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells, 
The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells, 

The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells.” 

I said  that  “ all  the  years  invent ; 

Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

“ Were  this  not  well, to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho’  watching  from  a ruin’d  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  ? ” 

“ The  highest-mounted  mind,”  he  said, 

“ Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

“ Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main  ? 

“ Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold 
crown 

And  crystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and 
town  'i 

“ Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 
Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge, dream’d  not  y et. 

‘ Thou  hast  not  gain’d  a real  height, 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

“ ’Twere  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak, 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak, 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

“ Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 
Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  re- 
sign’d, 

A healthy  frame,  a quiet  mind.” 


I said,  “ When  I am  gone  away, 

‘ He  dared  not  tarry,’  men  will  say, 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay.” 

“ This  is  more  vile,”  he  made  reply, 

“ To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and 
sigh, 

Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

“ Sick  art  thou  — a divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a coward  still. 

“ Do  men  love  thee  ? Art  thou  so 
bound 

To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  ? 

“ The  memory  of  the  wither’d  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner’d  Autumn-sheaf. 

“ Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust; 

The  right  ear,  that  is  fill’d  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just.” 

“ Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,”  I cried, 

“ From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride ! 

“ Nay  — rather  yet  that  I could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm’d  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I yearn’d  for  human  praise. 

“ When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of 
tongue, 

Among  the  tents  I paused  and  sung, 
The  distant  battle  flash’d  and  rung. 

“ I sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear, 

And,  sitting,  burnish’d  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler, and  the  spear— 

“ Waiting  to  strive  a happy  strife, 

To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife, 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

“ Some  hidden  principle  to  move, 

To  put  together,  part  and  prove, 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and 
I love  — 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


35 


“ As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt, 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb 
about  — 

“To  search  through  all  I felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law  : 

“ At  least,  not  rotting  like  a weed, 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed, 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

“To  pass  when  Life  her  light  with- 
draws, 

Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  in  a merely  selfish  cause  — 

“ In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor'd,  known, 
And  like  a warrior  overthrown; 

“ Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious 
tears, 

When  soil'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country’s  war-song  thrill  his  ears : 

“Then  dying  of  a mortal  stroke, 

What  time  the  foeman’s  line  is  broke. 
And  all  the  war  is  rolled  in  smoke." 

“ Yea  ! " said  the  voice,  “ thy  dream 
was  good, 

While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 

It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

“ If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower, 

Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour  ? 

“ Then  comes  the  check,  the  change, 
the  fall, 

Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 

There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

“ Yet  hadst  thou,  thro*  fenduring  pain, 
Link'd  month  to  month  with  such  a 
chain 

Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

“ Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and 
* birth 

Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 

So  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 


“ That  men  with  knowledge  merely 
play’d, 

I told  thee  — hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho’  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade  ; 

“ Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and 
blind, 

Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to 
find, 

That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

“ For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and 
soon 

Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

“ Cry,  faint  not : either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn. 

Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

“ Cry,  faint  not,  climb  : the  summits 
slope 

Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope, 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to 
cope. 

“ Sometimes  a little  corner  shines, 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 
, A gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines 

“ I will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 

I shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 

Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

“ If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 
Thou  know'st  not.  Shadows  thou 
dost  strike, 

Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like ; 

“ And  owning  but  a little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a little  lower 

“ Than  angels.  Cease  to  wail  and 
brawl ! 

Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all." 

“ O dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 

“ Wilt  thou  make  every  thing  a lie^ 

To  flatter  me  that  1 may  die  ? 


36 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


“ I know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A.  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

“ I cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven  : 

“ Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 

And  did  not  dream  it  was  a dream  ; 

“ But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev’n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 

The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — 

“ Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Bore  and  forebore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

“ He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 

Tho’  cursed  and  scorn’d,  and  bruised 
with  stones  : 

“But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace, 
He  pray’d,  and  from  a happy  place 
God’s  glory  smote  him  on  the  face.” 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt : 
n Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were 
fix’d, 

The  elements  were  kindlier  mix’d.” 

I said,  “ I toil  beneath  the  curse, 

But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 

I fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

“ And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo, 

( )ne  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 

1 knit  a hundred  others  new : 

“ Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
(Jnmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense, 

Be  fix’d  and  froz’n  to  permanence : 

For  I go,  weak  from  suffering  here  : 
Naked  I go,  and  void  of  cheer : 

What  is  it  that  I may  not  fear?  ” 


“ Consider  well,”  the  voice  replied, 

“ His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath 
died ; 

Wilt  thou  find  passion, pain  or  pride? 

“ Will  he  obey  when  one  commands  ? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands  ? 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

“ His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast: 
There  is  no  other  thing  express’d 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

“ His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek : 
Tho’  one  should  smite  him  on  the 
cheek, 

And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

“ His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss’d,  taking  his  last  embrace. 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race  — 

“ His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name. 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame, — 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

“ He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave. 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

“ High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim: 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him.” 

“ If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,”  I said, 
“ These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and 
dread, 

Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead* 

“ The  sap  dries  up : the  plant  declines. 
A deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  I not  Death?  the  outward  signs? 

“ I found  him  when  my  years  were  few ; 
A shadow  on  the  graves  I knew, 

And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

“ From  grave  to  grave  the  shadow 
crept : # 

In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept: 

| Touch’d  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


u The  simple  senses  crown’d  his  head: 
1 Omega  ! thou  art  Lord,’  they  said, 
'We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.’ 

“ Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease, 
Should  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by 

these, 

Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease  ? 

“ Who  forged  that  other  influence, 
That  heat  of  inward  evidence, 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  ? 

“ He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 

That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 

Not  simple  as  a thing  that  dies. 

“ Here  sits  lie  shaping  wings  to  fly : 

His  heart  forebodes  a mystery : 

He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

“ That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 

He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

“ He  seems  to  hear  a Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro’  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A labor  working  to  an  end. 

“ The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason  : many  things  perplex, 

With  motions,  checks,  and  counter- 
checks. 

* He  knows  a baseness  in  his  blood 
At  such  strange  war  with  something 
good, 

He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 

“ Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn. 

Half  shown,  are  broken  and  with- 
drawn. 

^Ah ! sure  within  him  and  without, 
vould  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out, 

There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 

Vith  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain, 

)r  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 


3f 


“The  doubt  would  rest,  I dare  not 

solve. 

In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve.” 

As  when  a billow,  blown  against, 
Falls  back,  the  voice  with  which  I 
fenced 

A little  ceased,  but  recommenced. 

“ Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father 
play’d 

In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 

A merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade  ? 

“ A merry  boy  they  call’d  him  then. 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 

“ Before  the  little  ducts  began 
To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 
Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man  : 

“ Who  took  a wife,  who  rear’d  his  race, 
Whose  wrinkles  gather’d  on  his  face, 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days : 

“ A life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth, 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  ! ” 

“These  words,”  I said,  “are  like  the 
rest ; 

No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 

“ Hut  if  I grant,  thou  mightst  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend  — > 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end ; 

“Yet  how  should  I for  certain  hold 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 

That  I first  was  in  human  mould  ? 

“ I cannot  make  this  matter  plain, 

But  I would  shoot,  howe’er  in  vain, 

A random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

“ It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found, 

Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 


38 


]*rff£  TWO  VO  TOES. 


“ As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 
The  slipping  thro’  from  state  to  state. 

“As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then, 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

“ So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 
As  one  before,  remember  much, 

For  those  two  likes  might  meet  and 
touch. 

“ But  if  I lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace ; 

“ Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 
In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of 
night ; 

“ Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I came  — 

Tho’  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame 

“ I might  forget  my  weaker  lot ; 

For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot  ? 

The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

“ And  men,  whose  reason  long  was 
blind, 

From  cells  of  madness  unconfined, 

Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

“ Much  more,  if  first  I floated  free, 

As  naked  essence,  must  I be 
Incompetent  of  memory: 

“For  memory  dealing  but  with  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime  ? 

“ Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

“Of  something  felt,  like  something 
here ; 

Of  something  done,  I know  not  where  ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare. 


The  still  voice  laugh’d.  “ I talk,” 
said  he, 

“ Not  with  thy  dreams.  Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a reality.” 

“ But  thou,”  said  I,  “ hast  missed  thy 
mark, 

Who  sought’st  to  wreck  thy  mortal 
ark, 

By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 

“ Why  not  set  forth,  if  I should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new  ? 

“ Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human 
breath 

Has  ever  truly  long’d  for  death. 

“’Tis  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are 
scant, 

Oh  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I want.” 

I ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 

Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn, 

“ Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn.” 

And  I arose,  and  I released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften’d  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal, 

The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal 

On  to  God’s  house  the  people  prest : 
Tassing  the  place  where  each  must  rest, 
Each  enter’d  like  a welcome  guest. 

One  walk’d  between  his  wife  and  child. 
With  measured  footfall  firm  and  mild, 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean’d  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure, 

The  little  maiden  walk’d  demure, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


39 


These  three  made  unity  so  sweet, 

My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I blest  them,  and  they  wander’d  on  : 

I spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none  • 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

\ second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A murmur,  “ Be  of  better  cheer.” 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 
A notice  faintly  understood, 

“I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good.” 

A little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A hint,  a whisper  breathing  low, 

“ I may  not  speak  of  what  I know.” 

Like  an  Aeolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes  : 

Such  seem’d  the  whisper  at  my  side  : 
“ What  is  it  thou  knowest,  sweet 
voice  ? ” I cried. 

u A hidden  hope,”  the  voice  replied : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a power 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  from  the 
shower, 

To  feel,  altho’  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I went, 

And  Nature’s  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I wonder’d  at  the  bounteous  hours, 

The  slow  result  of  winter  showers : 

You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for 
flowers. 

I wonder’d  while  I paced  along : 

The  woods  were  fill’d  so  full  with  song, 
There  seem’d  no  room  for  sense  of 
wrong ; 


i And  all  so  variously  wrought, 

I marvell’d  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought  ; 

And  wherefore  rather  I made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Than  him  that  said,  “ Rejoice ! Re- 
joice ! ” 


THE  MILLER’S  DAUGHTER. 

I see  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

Ilis  double  chin,  his  portly  size, 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 
The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 
His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl’d, 
Seem’d  half-within  and  half-without, 
And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 

In  yonder  chair  I see  him  sic, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver 
cup  — 

I see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 
At  his  own  jest  — gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a soul 
So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and 
whole. 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  : give  me  one  kiss  : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There’s  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 
Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 
There’s  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 
But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 

Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 
That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I not  found  a happy  earth  ? 

I least  should  breathe  a thought  of 
pain. 

Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 
I’d  almost  live  my  life  again. 

So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 
And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 
Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — * 


40 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 
Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 
Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire : 
Tor  even  here,  where  I and  you 
Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long. 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro’ 
By  some  wild  skylark’s  matin  song. 

And  oft  I heard  the  tender  dove 
In  firry  woodlands  making  moan ; 

But  ere  I saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I had  no  motion  of  my  own. 

For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play  d 
Before  I dream’d  that  pleasant 
dream  — 

Still  hither  thither  idly  sway’d 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the 
stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I lean’d  to  hear 
The  milldam  rushing  down  with 
noise, 

And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 
In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 
Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones, 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that 
hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 
When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
(Twas  April  then),  I came  and  sat 
Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their 
buds 

Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 

I cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 
But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A love-song  I had  somewhere  read, 
An  echo  from  a measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 
From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 
With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a thousand 

times. 


Then  leapt  a trout.  In  lazy  mood 
I watch’d  the  little  circles  die ; 

They  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a vision  caught  my  eye ; 
The  reflex  of  a beauteous  form, 

A glowing  arm,  a gleaming  neck, 

As  when  a sunbeam  wavers  warm 
Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set, 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edg^ 

A long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the 
ledge : 

And  when  I raised  my  eyes,  above 
They  met  with  two  so  full  and 
bright  — 

Such  eyes  ! I swear  to  you,  my  love, 
That  these  have  never  lost  their 
light. 

I loved,  and  love  dispell’d  the  fear 
That  I should  die  an  early  death : 
For  love  possess’d  the  atmosphere, 
And  fill’d  the  breast  with  purer 
breath. 

My  mother  thought,  What  ails  the 
boy  ? 

For  I was  alter’d,  and  began  . 

To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 
And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Thro’  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 

The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten’d  floor, 
The  dark  round  of  the  dripping 
wheel, 

The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 
When  April  nights  began  to  blow 
And  April’s  crescent  glimmer  d cold, 
I saw  the  village  lights  below ; 

I knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I came,  and  lay 
Upon  the  freshly-flower’d  slope. 


THE  ATI  LEE  HS  DAUGHTER. 


41 


Hie  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the 
mill ; 

And  “by  that  lamp,"  I thought, 
“ she  sits  ! " 

The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 
Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
O that  I were  beside  her  now ! 

O will  she  answer  if  I call  ? 

0 would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow 
Sweet  Alice,  if  I told  her  all  ? "’ 


I watch'd  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not 
see  ; 

She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things 
And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face. 
As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart. 
And  rose,  and,  with  a silent  grace 
Approaching,  press'd  you  heart  to 
heart. 


Sometimes  I saw  you  sit  and  spin  : 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I heard  you  sing  within ; 
Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the 
blind. 

At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light. 
And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair  * 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darken’d  there. 

But  when  at  last  I dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white 
with  may, 

Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your 
cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day  • 
And  so  it  was  — half-sly,  half-shy, 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little 
one ! 

Although  I pleaded  tenderly, 

And  you  and  I were  all  alone. 


Ah,  well  — but  sing  the  foolish  song 
* gave  y°u>  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

4 Pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  — that  I may  seem. 
As  m the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Be®1(*e  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream 
' ^ bG  ^°Se  chestnuts  whisper 

It  is  the  miller’s  daughter 
And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
lnat  I would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  in  her  ear : 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

1 d touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I would  be  the  girdle 
a Ab?ut  ,her  daillty  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me. 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  1 should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I d clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 


^nd  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 
To  yield  consent  to  my  desire: 

;he  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 
I might  have  look'd  a little  higher ; 

^ was  yoimg  — too  young  to  wed : 
1 Yet  must  I love  her  for  your  sake ; 
k)  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said : ’ 
Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

nd  down  I went  to  fetch  my  bride  : 
-But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease; 
his  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 
Too  fearful  that  you  should  not 
please. 

loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 
id  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  in 
tears, 

I kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 


And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 
Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs. 
And  I would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I scarce  should  be  unclasp’d  at  night. 


A trifle,  sweet ! which  true  love  spells— 
True  iove  interprets — right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 

So,  if  I waste  words  now,  in  truth 
You  must  blame  Love.  His  early 
rage  J 

Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth, 
And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age* 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone 
Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art. 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in 
one, 


42 


FA  TIMA . 


Do  make  a garland  for  the  heart : 

So  sing  that  other  song  I made, 
Half-anger’d  with  my  happy  lot, 

The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 
I found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget. 

Many  suns  arise  and  set. 

Many  a chance  the  years  beget. 

Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 

Love  is  made  a vague  regret. 

Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 

Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 

What  is  love?  for  we  forget: 

Ah,  no!  no! 

Look  thro’ mine  eyes  with  thine.  True 

wife, 

Hound  my  true  heart  thine  arms  in- 
twine 

My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro’  my  very  soul  with  thine . 
Untouch’d  with  any  shade  of  years 
May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a many  tears, 
Dear  eyes,  since  first  I knew  them 
well- 

Yet  tears  they  shed:  they  had  their 
part 

Of  sorrow:  for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a want  unknown  before ; 
Although  the  loss  has  brought'us  pain, 
That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more, 

With  farther  lookings  on.  The  kiss, 
The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 
The  comfort,!  have  found  in  thee  . 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  — who 
wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or 
thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can 
find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 


For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 
Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 
Touching  the  sullen  pool  below : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 
Is  dry  and  dewless.  Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 

0 Love,  Love,  Love!  0 withering 
might ! 

0 sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I strain  my  sight, 
Throbbing  thro’  all  thy  heat  and  light, 

Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo’  parch’d  and  wither’d,  deaf  and 
blind, 

I whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city’s  eastern  towers : 

1 thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers  : 

I roll’d  among  the  tender  flowers  : 

I crush’d  them  on  my  breast,  my 
mouth ; 

I look’d  athwart  tile  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his 
name, 

From  my  swift  blood  that  went  ana 
came 

A thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver’d  in  my  narrow  frame. 

O Love,  O fire  ! once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul 
thro’  1 , 

My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I know 
He  cometh  quickly  : from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens, 
blow 

Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 

In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to 
swoon, 

Faints  like  a dazzled  morning  mooa 

The  wind  sounds  like  a silver  wire: 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a fire 


(ENONE. 


43 


is  pour’d  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire ; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 
My  heart,  pierced  thro’  with  fierce 
delight, 

Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 

All  naked  in  a sultry  sky, 

Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 

I will  possess  him  or  will  die. 

I will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face, 
Die,  dying  clasp’d  in  his  embrace. 

* 

CENONE. 

There  lies  a vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart 
the  glen, 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from 
pine  to  pine, 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.  On  either 
hand 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  mid- 
way down 

Hang  ricii  in  flowers,  and  far  below 
them  roars 

The  long  brook  falling  thro’  the 
clov’n  ravine 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 
btands  up  and  takes  the  morning:  but 
in  front 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Iroas  and  Ilion’s  column’d  citadel, 

The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Vlournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 
)f  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the 
hills. 

*Ier  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 
her  neck 

i'loated  her  hair  or  seertl’d  to  float  in 
rest. 

•he,  leaning  on  a fragment  twined 
with  vine, 

angto  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain- 
shade 

loped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 
upper  cliff. 


“O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d 
Ida, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

| E or  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the 
hill : 

The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass  : 

J he  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the 
stone, 

Bests  like  a shadow,  and  the  winds 
are  dead. 

The  purple  flower  droops : the  golden 
bee 

Is  lily-cradled  : I alone  awake. 

My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of 
love, 

My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes 
are  dim, 

And  I am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

“0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d 
Ida, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Hear  me,  0 Earth,  hear  me,  O Hills, 

O Caves 

That  house  the  cold  crown’d  snake!  0 
mountain  brooks, 

I am  the  daughter  of  a River  God, 

Hear  me,  for  I will  speak,  and  build 
up  all 

My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder 
walls 

Bose  slowly  to  a music  slowly 
breathed, 

A cloud  that  gather’d  shape : for  it 
may  be 

That,  while  I speak  of  it,  a little  while 

My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper 
woe. 


<u-  mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d 
Ida, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

I waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills, 

Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewv 
dark, 

And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain 
pine  : 

Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 

Leading  a jet-black  goat  white-horn’d* 
white-hooved, 

Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone, 


44 


(ENONE. 


“ O mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die* 

Far-off  the  torrent  call’d  me  from  the 
cleft : 

Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.  With 
down-dropt  eyes 

I sat  alone  : white-breasted  like  a star 

Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved;  a leop- 
ard skin 

Droop’d  from  his  shoulder,  but  his 
sunny  hair 

Cluster’d  about  his  temples  like  a 
God’s : , . 

And  his  cheek  brighten’d  as  thetoam- 


But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  y ester- 
eve, 

Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common 
voice 

Elected  umpire,  Here  comes  to-day, 

Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 

This  meed  of  fairest.  Thou,  within 
the  cave 

Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest 
pine, 

Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld, 
unheard 

Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  ot 
Gods/ 


bow  brightens 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and 
all  my  heart 

Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming 
ere  he  came. 


“Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk- 
white  palm 

Disclosed  a fruit  of  pure  Hesperian 
gold, 

That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I 


look’d  . 

And  listen’d,  the  full-flowing  river  ot 
speech 

Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

“ 4 My  own  CEnone, 
Beautif ul-brow’d  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 
ingrav’n 

“For  the  most  fair,”  would  seem  to 
award  it  thine, 

As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  mar- 
ried brows/ 


“ Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 

And  added  ‘ This  was  cast  upon  the 
board,  „ 

When  all  the  fall-faced  presence  ot 
the  Gods 

Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus  ; where- 
upon 

Hose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom 
’twere  due : 


44  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die , 

It  was  the  deep  midnoon:  one  silvery 
cloud 

Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney 
sides 

Of  this  long  glen.  Then  to  the  bower 
they  came, 

Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth- 
swarded  bower, 

And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like 
fire, 

Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 

Lotos  and  lilies  : and  a wind  arose, 

And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and 
vine. 

This  way  and  that,  in  many  a wild 
festoon 

Ran.  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled 
boughs  , ! 

With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro 
and  thro’. 

44  O mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

On  the  tree-tops  a crested  peacock  lit, 

And  o’er  him  flow’d  a golden  cloud, 
and  lean’d 

Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant 
dew. 

Then  first  I beard  the  voice  of  her,  to 
whom 

Coming  thro’  Heaven,  like  a light  that 
grows 

Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  nnnd  the 
Gods  ^ . 

Rise  up  for  reverence.  She  to  1 ari: 
made 


CENONE. 


Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion’d  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  ‘from 
many  a vale 

And  river-sunder’d  champaign  clothed 
with  corn, 

Or  labor’d  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,’  she  said,  ‘ and  homage,  tax 
and  toll, 

From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 
large, 

Mast-throng’d  beneath  her  shadowing 
citadel 

in  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest 
towers.’ 

^ “O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 
ffill  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake 
of  power, 

Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 
’ower  fitted  to  the  season ; wisdom-* 
bred 

i.nd  throned  of  wisdom  - — from  all 
neighbor  crowns 

alliance  and  Allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
ail  from  the  sceptre-staff.  Such 
boon  from  me, 

'rom  me,  Heaven’s  Queen,  Paris,  to 
thee  king-born, 

. shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king- 
born, 

hould  come  most  welcome,  seeing 
i men  in  power  & 

nly,  are  likestgods,  who  have  attain’d 
est  in  a happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
bove  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
i knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.’ 

Hear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 
ie  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costlv 
fruit  J 

(it  at  arm’s-length,  so  much  the 
thought  of  power 

atter  d his, spirit;  but  Pallas  where 
she  stood 

mewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared 
limbs 

irthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed 
spear 

on  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
e while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest 
! eye 


Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angrv 
cheek 

Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made 
reply. 

“ ' Self-reverence,  self-knowledge, 
self-control, 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sover 
eign  power. 

et  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 

Would  come  uncall’d  for)  but  to  live 
by  law, 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear ; 

And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow 
right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  conse* 
quence.’ 


“Hear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die 
Again  she  said  ; ‘I  woo  thee  not  with 
gifts. 

Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.  Judge  thou  me  by  what  I 
am, 

So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

. Yet,  indeed, 

H gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of 
fair, 

Lnbiass’d  by  self-profit,  oh!  rest  thee 
sure 

That  I shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave 
to  thee. 

So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a 
God’s, 

To  push  thee  forward  thro’  a life  of 
shocks, 

Hangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance 
grow 

Sinew  d with  action,  and  the  full-grown 
will, 

Circled  thro’  all  experiences,  pure  law 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.’ 

“ Here  she  ceas’d, 
And  Paris  ponder’d,  and  I cried,  ‘O 
Paris, 

Give  it  to  Pallas ! ’ but  he  heard  me 
not, 

Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is 
me ! 


46 


lenunE. 


“O  mother  Ida,  many-foun  tabl’d  Ida, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 

Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in 
Paphian  wells, 

With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward 
drew 

From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 
deep  hair 

Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid 
throat 

And  shoulder  • from  the  violets  her 
light  foot 

Shone  rosy-white,  and  o’er  her  rounded 
form 

Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine- 
bunches 

Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she 
moved. 

“Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

She  with  a subtle  smile  in  her  mild 
eyes, 

The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing 

nigh  . 

Half-whisper’d  in  his  ear,  I promise 
thee 

The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in 
Greece/ 

She  spoke  and  laugh’d : I shut  my 
sight  for  fear: 

But  when  I look’d,  Paris  had  raised 
his  arm, 

And  I beheld  great  Here’s  angry  eyes, 

As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 

And  I was  left  alone  within  the  bower  ; 

And  from  that  time  to  this  I am  alone, 

And  I shall  be  alone  until  I die. 

“ Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Fairest  — why  fairest  wife?  am  I not 
fair? 

My  love  hath  told  me  so  a thousand 
times. 

Methinks  I must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 

When  I past  by,  a wild  and  wanton 
pard, 

Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  play- 
ful tail 

Crouch’d  fawning  in  the  weed.  Most 
loving  is  she  ? 


Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that 
✓ my  arms 

Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot 
lips  prest 

Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick- 
falling dew 

Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn 
rains 

Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

“ 0 mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 

They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest 
pines, 

My  tali  dark  pines,  that  plumed  the 
craggy  ledge 

High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all 
between 

The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cata- 
ract 

Foster’d  the  callow  eaglet — from  be- 
neath 

Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the 
dark  morn 

The  panther’s  roar  came  muffled,  while 
I sat 

Low  in  the  valley.  Never,  never  mon 

Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning 
mist 

Sweep  thro’  them;  never  see  then 
overlaid 

With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silve 
cloud, 

Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trem 
bling  stars. 

“ O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die 

I wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin’* 
folds, 

Among  the  fragments  tumbled  froi 
the  glens, 

Or  the  dry  thickets,  I could  meet  wit 
her 

The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  cam 

Into  the  fair  Pele'ian  banquet-hall, 

And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  tli 
board, 

And  bred  this  change  ; that  I migl 
speak  my  mind, 

And  tell  her  to  her  face  hpw  much 
hate 

Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  ar 
men. 


the  sisters. 


“ O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a thousand 
times, 

In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green 
hill, 

Ev’n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting'on  this 
8 tone  ? 

Seal  d it  with  kisses  ? water'd  it  with 
tears  ? 

0 happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to 
these ! 

0 happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see 
my  face  ? 

0 happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear 
my  weight  ? 

0 death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-float- 
ing cloud. 

There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this 
earth, 

Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to 
live : 

- pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of 
life, 

Vnd  shadow  all  my  soul  that  I may 
die. 

Chou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart 
within, 

Veigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids:  let  me 
die. 

“0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 
will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
>o  shape  themselves  within  me,  more 
and  more, 

thereof  I catch  the  issue,  as  I hear 
ead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the 
inmost  hills, 

ike  footsteps  upon  wool.  I dimly  sea 
y far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a 
mother 

mjecturcs  of  the  features  of  her 
child 

e it  is  born  : her  child  ! — a shudder 
comes 

iross  me : never  child  be  born  of  me, 
lblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's 
eyes ! 

‘ O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 
ar  me>  O earth.  I will  not  die  alone, 
st  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come 
to  me 


<?? 


Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of 
Death 

Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 

With  the  Greek  woman.  I will  rise 
and  go 

Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars 
come  forth 

lalk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she 
says 

A fire  dances  before  her,  and  a sound 

Kings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 

What  this  may  be  I know  not,  but  I 
know 

That,  whereso'er  I am  by  night  and 
da  y, 

All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning 
fire."  * 


THE  SISTERS 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race: 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 

They  were  together, and  she  fell; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

She  died : she  went  to  burning  flame : 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with 
shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and 
tree. 

Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early 
and  late, 

To  win  his  love  I lay  in  wait : 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I made  a feast ; I bade  him  come ; 

I won  his  love,  I brought  him  home. 
The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and 
tree. 

And  after  supper,  on  a bed, 

Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head: 

0 the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

1 kiss’d  his  eyelids  into  rest: 

His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree 
I hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell. 

Rut  I loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

0 the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


48 


TO 


I rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  lie  drew, 
Three  times  I stabb’d  him  thro  and 
thro''. 

0 the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


THE  PALACE  OE  APT. 

I built  my  soul  a lordly  pleasure- 
house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 

I said,  “ 0 Soul,  make  merry  and 
carouse,  j| 

Hear  soul,  for  all  is  well.” 


I curl’d  and  comb’d  lijs  comely  head. 
He  look’d  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 
The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 

I wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet. 

And  laid  him  at  Ins  mother  s teet. 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


TO  • 

WITH  THE  FOLLOWING  POEM. 

I send  you  here  a sort  of  allegory, 

(Eor  you  will  understand  it)  of  a soul, 

A sinful  soul  possess’d  of  many  gifts, 
A spacious  garden  full  of  flowering 
weeds,  . _ , A 

A glorious  Devil,  large  m heart  and 
brain,  , 

That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty 
seen 

In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind) 
And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty  ; or  it 
Good, 

Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 
That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge, 
are  three  sisters 

That  dote  upon  each  other,  friends  to 
man,  , f 

Living  together  under  the  same  root. 
And  never  can  be  sunder’d  without 

And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn 
shall  be  , - 

Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  thresh- 
old lie  » 

Howling  in  outer  darkness.  Kot  tor 
this  „ . 

Was  common  clay  ta’en  from  the  com- 
mon earth 

Moulded  by  God,  and  temper  d with 
the  tears 

Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


A huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  bur- 
nish’d brass 

I chose.  The  ranged  ramparts 
bright 

Erom  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I built  it  firm.  Of  ledge  or 
shelf  . . 

The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  “while  the  world  runs  round  and 
round,”  I said, 

“ Keign  thou  apart,  a quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stead 
fast  shade  # 

Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring. 

To  which  my  soul  made  answej 
readily : 

“ Trusc  me,  in  bliss  I shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion  that  is  built  fo 

me,  „ 

So  royal-rich  and  wide. 

* * * * 

* * * * 

Four  courts  I made,  East,  West  an 
South  and  North,  | 

In  each  a squared  lawn,  wheretro: 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spoutc 
forth 

A flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  the 
ran  a row  . 

Of  cloisters,  branch’d  like  migh 
woods, 

Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonoro 

flow  . . 

Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 


the  palace  of  art. 


49 


And  round  the  roofs  a gilded  gallery 
I hat  lent  broad  verge  to  distant 
lands, 

Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where 
the  sky 

Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  .currents  in 
one  swell 

Across  the  mountain  stream’d  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they 
fell 

Lit  up  a torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a statue 
seem’d 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam’d 
-from  out  a golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  “And  who  shall 
gaze  upon 

My  pa!ace  with  unblinded  eyes 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the 
sun, 

And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ? ” 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never 
fail’d, 

And  while  day  sank  or  mounted 
higher, 

The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail’d, 
-Burnt  like  a fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain’d 
and  traced, 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson 
fires 

From  shadow’d  grots  of  arches  inter- 
laced, 

And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 

* * * * 

, * * * * 
ullof  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 
lhat  over- vaulted  grateful  gloom 
ro  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul 
did  pass, 

Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 


From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung with  arras  green 
and  blue. 

Showing  a1  gaudy  summer-morn, 

Y\  here  with  puff’d  cheek  the  belted 
hunter  blew 

Ills  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem’d  all  dark  and  red  — a tract 
of  sand, 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  forever  in  a glimmering 
land, 

Lit  with  a low  large  moon. 

One  show’d  an  iron  coast  and  angry 
waves. 

You  seem’d  to  hear  them  climb  and 
fall 

And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellow- 
ing caves. 

Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a full-fed  river  winding  slow 
-By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 

1 he  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding 
low,  & 

With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultrv 
toil.  J 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves. 
Behind 

Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 


nil  of  great  rooms  and  small  the 
palace  stood, 

All  various,  each  a perfect  whole 


And  one  a foreground  black  with 
stones  and  slags, 

Beyond  a line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr  d with  long  white  cloud  the 
scornful  crags, 

And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home  — gray 
twilight  pour’d 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
softer  than  sleep  — all  things  in  order 
stored, 

A haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 


50 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  I 

fair,  . 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind, 

Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern, 
was  there 

Not  less  than  truth  design  d. 

* * * * 

* * * * 

Or  the  maid-mother  by  a crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm. 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardo- 
nyx 

Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a clear- wall’d  city  on  the  sea, 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  St. 
Cecily ; 

An  angel  look’d  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 
A group  of  Houris  bow’d  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and 
eyes 

That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther’s  deeply-wounded 
son 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch’d  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 
To  list  a foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay’d  the  Ausoman 
king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail’d, 
And  many  a tract  of  palm  and  nee, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowl} 
sail’d 

A summer  fann’d  with  spice. 


Or  else  flush’d  Ganymede,  his  rosy 
thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  Eagle’s  down 

Sole  as  a flying  star  shot  thro’  the  sky 

Above  the  pillar’d  town. 

Nor  these  alone  : but  every  legend  fr.'r 

Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 

Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was 
there, 

Not  less  than  life,  design’d. 

* * * * 

* * * * 

Then  in  the  towers  I placed  great  bells 
that  swung, 

Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver 
sound ; 

And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men 
I hung 

The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a seraph 
strong,  , . , v 

Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and 
mild ; 

And  there  the  world-worn  Dante 
grasp’d  his  song, 

And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the 
rest; 

A million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin  , 

A hundred  winters  snow’d  upon  bis 
breast, 

From  cheek  and  throat  and  chm. 


Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately 
set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lilt, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  me 


Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann’d 
With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  ever} 


Or  sweet  Europa’s  mantle  blew  un- 
clasp’d, 

From  off  her  shoulder  backward 
borne : 

From  one  hand  droop’d  a crocus  : one 
hand  grasp’d 

The  mild  bull’s  golden  horn. 


So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a beast  of  burdei 

slow,  . , 

Toil’d  onward,  prick’d  with  goad 
iind  stings; 


THE  PALACE  OE  ART, 


51 


Here  play’d,  a tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Qere  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break 
or  bind 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  en- 
dure, 

And  here  once  more  like  some  sick 
man  declined, 

And  trusted  any  cure. 


Communing  with  herself  “ All  these 
are  mine, 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or 
wars, 

Tis  one  to  me.  ’ She — when  young 
, night  divine 
Crown’d  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious 
toils  — 


But  over  these  she  trod:  and  those 
great  bells 

Began  to  chime.  She  took  her 
throne : 

She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 

To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro’  the  topmost  Oriels’  colored 
flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below; 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow’d  Veru- 
lam, 

The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their 
motion  were 

Full-welling  fountain-heads  of 
change. 

Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  bla- 
zon’d fair 

In  diverse  raiment  strange : 

Thro’  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber 
emerald,  blue, 

Flush  d in  her  temples,  and  her  eyes. 
And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from 
Memnon,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

So  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 
Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 

Hore  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo’d 
song 

Throb  thro’  the  ribbed  stone ; 

tinging  and  murmuring  in  her  feast- 
ful mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 

'Ord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible 
earth, 

Lord  of  the  senses  five ; 


Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems. 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious 
oils 

In  hollow’d  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven;  and  clapt  hei 
hands  and  cried, 

“ I marvel  if  my  stiirdelight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and 
wide, 

Be  flatter’d  to  the  height. 

O all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various 

eyes! 

O shapes  and  hues  that  please  me 
well ! 

O silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I dwell! 

“ 0 God-like  isolation  which  art  mine. 
Can  count  ^iee  perfect  gain 
hat  time  I watch  the  darkenin0, 

^ droves  of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

“ In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a prurient 
skin, 

They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and 
sleep  ; 

And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep.” 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she 
prate 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish’d 
Fate; 

And  at  the  last  she  said : 


I take  possession  of  man’s  mind  and 
i deed. 

I care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl 

LIB""- 

UNIVERSITY  OF  fllfNOfS 


52 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


I sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemplating  all.,, 

* * * * 

* * * * 

Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 
Flash’d  thro’  her  as  she  sat  alone, 

Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn 
mirth, 

And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper’d : so 
three  years 

She  prosper’d : on  the  fourth  she 
fell, 

Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in 
his  ears, 

Struck  thro’  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly , 
God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where’er  she 
turn’d  her  sight 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 
Wrote,  “ Mene,  mene,”  and  divided 
quite 

The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  soli- 
tude  _ 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was 
born 

Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that 


And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of 
flame, 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 

On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon 
she  came, 

That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without 
light 

Or  power  of  movement,  seem  d my 
soul,  . . 

’Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A still  salt  pool,  lock’d  in  with  bars 
°f  sand, 

Left  on  the  shore ; that  hears  ail 
night 

The  plunging  seas  draw  backward 
from  the  land 

Their  moon-led  waters  white. 


A star  that  with  the  choral  starry 
dance 

Join’d  not,  but  stood,  and  standing 
saw  . • 

The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circum- 
stance 

Roll’d  round  by  one  fix’d  law. 


Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had 
curl’d. 

“No  voice,”  she  shriek’d  in  that 
lone  hall, 

« No  voice  breaks  thro’  the  stillness 
of  this  world:  w 

One  deep,  deep  silence  all! 


mood 

Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

“What!  is  not  this  my  place  of 
strength,”  she  said, 

“ My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones 
were  laid  w 

Since  my  first  memory  1 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 
Uncertain  shapes ; and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping 
tears  of  blood, 

And  horrible  nightmares, 


She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth’s 
mouldering  sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name  ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally 
And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity. 
No  comfort  anywhere ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  wit! 
fears, 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 


53 


And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears. 
And  all  alone  in  crime : 

Shut  up  as  in  a crumbling  tomb,  girt 
round 

With  blackness  as  a solid  wall, 

Far  off  she  seem’d  to  hear  the  dully 
sound 

Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a traveller  walk- 
ing slow, 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 

A little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder,  or  a 
sound 

Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep 
cry 

Of  great  wild  beasts;  then  thinketh, 
“I  have  found 
A new  land,  but  I die.” 

She  howi’d  aloud,  “ I am  on  fire  within. 

there  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin 
And  save  me  lest  I die1?”  * 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  fin- 
ished, 

..  ,?h,e  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 
Make  me  a cottage  in  the  vale,”  she 
said, 

“ V here  I may  mourn  and  pray. 

'Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers 
that  are  9 

So  lightly  beautifully  built: 
Perchance  I may  return  with  others 
there 

When  I have  purged  my  guilt.” 


-ADY  CLARA  YERE  DE  VERE. 
JADY  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
r ^ , P16  y°u  shall  not  win  renown  : 
ou  thought  to  break  a country  heart 
■lor  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town 
^t  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 
I saw  the  snare,  and  I retired  : 
he  daughter  of  a hundred  Earls, 
ou  are  not  one  tQ  b§  desired*. 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I know  you  proud  to’  bear  your 
name, 

Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 
Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I 
came. 

Nor  would  I break  for  your  sweet  sake 
A heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  findp 
lor  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I could  not  stoop  to  such  a mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I could  love; 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 

The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 
Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

T ou  put  strange  memories  in  my 
head. 

Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 

Since  I beheld  young  Laurence 
dead. 

Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies 
A great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 

But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Y hen  thus  he  met  his  mother’s 
view, 

She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of 
you. 

Indeed  I heard  one  bitter  word 
That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere. 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

^ There  stands  a spectre  in  your  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door: 
You  changed  a wholesome  heart  to 
gall. 

You  held  your  course  without  remorse. 
To  make  him  trust  his  modest 
worth. 


THE  to  A Y QUEEN. 


54 


And,  last,  you  fix’d  a vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us 
bent  ... 

The  gardener  Adam  and  his  wile 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 

Howe’er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

’Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 
And  simple  faith  than  Norman 
blood. 

I know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and 
towers : 


The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 
Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 

In  glowing  health,  with  boundless 
wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 
You  needs  must  play  such  pranks 
as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Yere, 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate. 
Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands . 
Oh  \ teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 
Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a human  heart, 
And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


the  may  queen. 

x 1 o ri  Pt,  11  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear  ; 
You  must  wake  and  call  me  ea  y,  New-year; 


rui  a 

There’s  many  a black  ^“^XoVe’^Kate  an^CaToUne  I'"8''1  “ 

o>  the  May- 


IS  o' V M.,.  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queer,  o'  the  M.y, 


mSK  Q«en  o' Se  M.y  mother,  I'm  to  bo  Queen  o'  the  MW. 


gg  say  me. 

^ thC  ^ 


Se5Wl  1 Queen. 


iHE  MAY  QUEEN . 


55 


the  May. 


the  May 


For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  ’ill  come  from  far  away, 

And  I m to  be  Queen  o the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o’ 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov’n  its  wavy  bowers 
An^tbhy  th*  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers- 

And  iike  fire  in  swamPs  anj  w 

And  I m to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May 

Tnd  "^‘-'vinds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass  • 

There  will  not  be  a drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day  ’ 

And  I m to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  th 

J4'd  tbe  vaUey,  mother,  ’ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still. 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  ’ill  merrily  glance  and  play 
For  I m to  be  Queen  o the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

Tomorrow  >n7fetrdv,Call-me  6arly’  Cal4  rae  earlX>  mother  dear 
lo-morrow  ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year  : 

For  r’,nTVi  V 3e  0t  a!‘  !he/ear  the  maddest  merriest  day, 

For  I m to  be  Queen  o the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

NEW-YEAR’S  EVE. 

Ip  you’re  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

For  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I shall  ever  see 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i’  the  mould  and’ think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night 1 saw  the  sun  set : he  set  and  left  behind 

Ind  fhe  Rp  year>’  the  dear  °‘d  time’  and  a11  “F  P^ce  of  mind ; 

And  the  New-year  s coming  up,  mother,  but  I shall  never  see 

The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Rentp5wnWeiimaie  a crowi?  of  flowers  : we  had  a merry  day; 

Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May  • 

TdffTf  d.anfed  about  tlle  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse,  7 ’ 

Iill  Charles  s Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There’s  not  a flower  on  all  the  hills  : the  frost  is  on  the  pane  ; 

I only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again  : 

I wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  hieh  • 

1 long  to  see  a flower  so  before  the  day  I die. 

nUildi4?  r,ook  ’i!1  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

Rnt  T^LSn  rl07  ’iH  C°me,  back  again  with  summer  o’er  the  wavs. 

But  I shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine. 

In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine. 


56 


THE  MA  V Q UEEN . 


Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill. 

When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  stih. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You’ll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You’ll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 

And  you’ll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I am  lowly  laid. 

I shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you’ll  forgive  me  now ; 

You’ll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I go , 

Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

If  I can  I’ll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place  ; 

Tho’  you’ll  not  see  me,  mother,  I shall  look  upon  your  face ; 

Tho’  I cannot  speak  a word,  I shall  hearken  what  you  say , 

And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I m far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I have  said  good-night  forevermore. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door , 

Don’t  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green  : 
She’ll  be  a better  child  to  you  than  ever  I have  been. 

She’ll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor  : 

Let  her  take  ’em  : they  are  hers  : I shall  never  garden  more : 

But  tell  her,  when  I’m  gone,  to  tram  the  rosebush  that  I set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother  : call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 

All  night  I lie  awake,  but  I fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 

But  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year 
So,  if  you’re  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I am; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year . 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet  s here. 

O sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 

And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb’s  voice  to  me  that  cannot .rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem’d  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun, 

And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  ye*  His  will  be  done ! 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


But  still  I think  it  can’t  be  long  before  I find  release ; 

And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

0 blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ' 

0 blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head ' 

A thousand  times  I blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show’d  me  all  the  sin 
How,  tho’  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there’s  One  will  let  me  in  • 
Hor  would  I now  be  well,  mother,  again  if  that  could  be 
ior  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me.  ’ 

1 did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat 
There  came  a sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet 
AtiSitJleSlde  ,niy  bed>  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine. 

And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I will  tell  the  sign. 


All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I heard  the  angels  call  • 

It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all  • 
the  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear- 
I saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I no  longer  here  • ’ 

With  all  my  strength  I pray’d  for  both,  and  so  I felt  resign’d 
And  up  the  valley  came  a swell  of  music  on  the  wind.  ’ 

\ fought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I listen’d  in  my  bed 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me  — I know  not  what  was  said 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I said,  “ It’s  not  for  them-  it’s  mine." 
And  if  it  come  three  times,  I thought,  I take  it  for  a sign. 

Thfn°n0e  vP?"  11  can?e’  and  close  heside  the  window-bars, 
len  seem  d to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  1 think  my  time  is  near.  I trust  it  is.  I know 

And  f ,0SSe<  m,f  S1-C  that  wa-v  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 

myself,  indeed,  I care  not  if  I go  to-day.  S 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret  • 

If  ThadTived  a T,rthier  thah  I>  would  make  him  happy  yet. 

But  aHWiv1  CT0t  tel1  -1  might  have  been  his  wife ; 

But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O look  ! the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a glow  • 

He  shines  upon  a hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I know  ’ 

And  there  I move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine- 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  bauds  than  mine. 


58 


THE  jlOTOS-EA  FEES. 


O sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  1 ^b^sun-"6 

The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  thejun 

Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  , 

And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  1 why  make  we  such 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a blessed  home — - 

And  there  to  wait  a little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come  — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I lie  upon  your  breast  — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

*•  Courage  !”  he  said,  and  pointed 
toward  the  land, 

« This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us 
shoreward  soon.” 

In  the  afternoon  <hey  came  unto  a 
land 

In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 

All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

„ swoon, 

Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a weary 
dream. 

Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the 
moon ; . 

And  like  a downward  smoke,  the  slen- 
der stream 

Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and 
fall  did  seem. 


A land  of  streams  ! some,  like  a down- 
ward smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn, 
did  go ; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and 
shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a slumbrous  sheet  of  toam 
below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward 
flow 

From  the  inner  land:  far  off,  three 
mountain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flush’d ; and,  dew  d with 
showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 
woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low 
adown  . ... 

In  the  red  West : thro'  mountain  cietts 
the  dale 


Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow 
down 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a wind- 
ing vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galin- 

gale ; 

A land  where  all  things  always  seem  d 
the  same ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces 
pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos- 
eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted 
stem, 

Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereol 
they  gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  o 
them, 

And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  th- 
wave 

Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  an< 
rave 

On  alien  shores ; and  if  his  felun 
spake, 

His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  tli 
grave ; 

And  deep-asleep  he  seem’d,  yet  a 
awake, 

And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  hea 
did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yello 
sand, 

Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  v 
shore ; , 

And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  *atn.; 
land, 

Of  child  and  wife,  and  slave;  l 
evermore 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


59 


Most  weary  seem’d  the  sea,  weary  the 
oar, 

Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren 
foam. 

Then  some  one  said,  “ We  will  return 
no  more ; ” 

And  all  at  once  they  sang,  “ Our  island 
home 

Is  far  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no 
longer  roam.” 


CHORIC  SONG. 

i. 

There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer 
falls 

Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the 
grass, 

Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between 
walls 

Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a gleaming 
pass ; 

Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tir’d  eyelids  upon  tir’d  eyes ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down 
from  the  blissful  skies. 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 

And  thro’  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved 
flowers  weep, 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 
hangs  in  sleep. 

ii. 

Why  are  we  weigh’d  upon  with  heavi- 
ness, 

\nd  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  dis- 
tress, 

Awhile  all  things  else  have  rest  from 
weariness  q 

U1  things  have  rest : why  should  we 
toil  alone, 

Ve  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of 
things, 

ind  make  perpetual  moan, 
till  from  one  sorrow  to  another 
thrown  : 

or  ever  fold  our  wings, 

:nd  cease  from  wanderings, 
or  steep  our  brows  in  slumber’s  holv 
balm ; J 


Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit 
sings, 

“ There  is  no  joy  but  calm  ! ” 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 
crown  of  things  1 

hi. 

To  ! in  the  middle' of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo’d  from  out  tb$ 
bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and 
there 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  ivo 
care, 

Sun-steep’d  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed ; and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo  ! sweeten’d  with  the  summer  light, 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over- 
mellow, 

Drops  in  a silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days 
The  flower  ripens  in  its  place,’ 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  nath 
no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

IV. 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  ?ky, 

Vaulted  o’er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life ; ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 

Let  us  alone.  Time  driveth  onward 
fast, 

And  in  a little  while  our-  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will  last? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  be- 
come 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful 
Past. 

Let  us  alone.  What  pleasure  can  we 
have 

To  war  with  evil  ? Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing 
wave  ? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward 
the  grave 

In  silence  ; ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  deatb 
or  dreamful  ease. 


60 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  down- 
ward stream, 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a half-dream  1 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder 
amber  light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-hush 
on  the  height ; 

To  hear  each  other’s  whisper’d  speech; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the 
beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy 
spray  ; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirit  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  mel- 
ancholy ; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 
memory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap’d  over  with  a mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in 
an  urn  of  brass ! 


vi. 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded 
lives, 

And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our 
wives 

And  their  warm  tears  : but  all  hath 
suffer’d  change  : 

For  surely  now  our  household  hearths 
are  cold : 

Our  sons  inherit  us : our  looks  are 
strange : 

And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to 
trouble  joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 

Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  min- 
strel sings, 

Before  them  of  the  ten  years’  war  in 
Troy, 

And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten 
things. 

Is(  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle 

Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 

’Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 


Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 

Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many 
wars 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on 
the  pilot-stars. 

VII. 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and 
moly, 

How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us, 
blowing  lowly) 

With  half-dropt  eyelid  still, 

Beneath  a heaven  dark  and  holy, 

To  watch  the  long  bright  river  draw- 
ing slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro’  the  thick- 
twined  vine  — 

To  watch  the  emerald-color’d  water 
falling 

Thro’  many  a wov’n  acanthus-wreath 
divine ! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  spar- 
kling brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch’d  out 
beneath  the  pine. 

VIII. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren 
peak  : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every-winding 
creek : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with 
mellower  tone : 

Thro’  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Bound  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the 
yellow  Lotos-dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  ant 
of  motion  we, 

Boil’d  to  starboard,  roll’d  to  larboard 
when  the  surge  was  seethini 
free, 

Where  the  wallowing  monster  spoute< 
his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  witl 
an  equal  mind. 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  an< 
lie  reclined 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN \ 


61 


On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  care- 
less of  mankind. 

tor  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and 
the  bolts  are  hurl’d 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and 
the  clouds  are  lightly  curl’d 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled 
with  the  gleaming  world  : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking 
over  wasted  lands, 

Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earth- 
quake, roaring  deeps  and  fiery 
sands, 

Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns, 
and  sinking  ships,  and  praying 
hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a music  cen- 
tred in  a doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a lamentation  and  an 
ancient  tale  of  wrong, 

Like  a tale  of  little  meaning  tho’  the 
words  are  strong ; 

Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men 
that  cleave  the  soil, 

Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest 
with  enduring  toil, 

Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat, 
and  wine  and  oil ; 

Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer  — 
some,  ’tis  whisper’d  — down  in 
hell 

Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in 
Elysian  valleys  dwell, 

Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds 
of  asphodel. 

Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet 
than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean, 
wind  and  wave  and  oar  ; 

Oh  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will 
not  wander  more. 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

I read,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their 
shade, 

The  Legend  of  Good  Women  f long 
^ ago 

sung  by  the  morning-star  of  song, 
who  made 

His  music  heard  below; 


Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  breath 

Preluded thosemelodious  bursts  that 
fill 

The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabet  h 

With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a while,  the  knowledge  of 
his  art 

Held  me  above  the  subject,  as 
strong  gales 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining, 
tho’  my  heart, 

Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears. 
In  every  land 

I saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 

Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in 
hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient 
song 

Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burn- 
ing stars, 

And  I heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame, 
and  wrong, 

And  trumpets  blown  for  wars  ; 

And  clattering  flints  batter’d  with 
clanging  hoofs ; 

And  I saw  crowds  in  column’d 
sanctuaries ; 

And  forms  that  pass’d  at  windows 
and  on  roofs 

Of  marble  palaces ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold  : heroes 
tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 

Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall  ; 

Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro’  with 
heated  blasts 

Thct  run  before  the  fluttering 
tongues  of  fire ; 

White  surf  wind-scatter’d  over  sails 
and  masts, 

And  pvPr  climbing  higher 


62 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in 
brazen  plates, 

Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water, 
divers  woes, 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with 
iron  grates, 

And  hush'd  seraglios. 

So  6hape  chased  shape  as  swift  as, 
when  to  land 

Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the 
self-same  way, 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the 
level  sand, 

Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in 
pain,  . , 

Resolved  on  noble  things,  and 
strove  to  speak, 

As  when  a great  thought  strikes  along 
the  brain, 

And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew 
down 

A cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow 

That  bore  a lady  from  a leaguer  d 
town ; 

And  then,  I know  not  how, 

All  those  sharp  fancies,  by  down- 
lapsing thought 

Stream’d  onward,  lost  their  edges, 
and  did  creep 

Roll'd  on  each  other,  rounded, 
smooth'd,  and  brought 

Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 


Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged 
with  clearest  green, 

New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her 
journey*  done, 

And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the 
twilight  plain, 

Half-fall'n  across  the  threshold  cl 
the  sun, 

Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb 
dead  air, 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  ot 

rill;  . . 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 

Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.  Growths  of 
jasmine  turn'd 

Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree 
to  tree 

And  at  the’  root  thro’  lush  green 
grasses  burn’d 

The  red  anemone. 

I knew  the  flowers,  I knew  the  leaves, 
I knew 

The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid 
dawn 

On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks 
drench'd  in  dew, 

Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the 
green, 

Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul 


At  last  methought  that  I had  wan- 
der’d far 

In  an  old  wood:  fresh-wash  d in 
coolest  dew 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning 

Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree-boles  did  stoop 
and  lean 

Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  under- 
neath 


and  frame 

The  times  when  I remember  to  have 
been 

Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 


Lnd  from  within  me  a clear  undei 
tone 

Thrill'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  un- 
blissful clime, 

‘Pass  freely  thro':  the  wood  is  ail 
thine  own, 

Until  the  end  of  time,” 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


63 


At  length  I saw  a lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell’d  marble,  stand- 
ing  there  ; 

A daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall. 

And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with 
surprise 

Froze  my  swift  speech  : she  turning 
on  my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal 
eyes, 

Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

I had  great  beauty:  ask  thou  not 
my  name : 

No  one  can  he  more  wise  than 
destiny. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died. 
Where'er  I came 

I brought  calamity." 

“ No  marvel,  sovereign  ladv : in  fair 
field 

Myself  for  such  a face  had  boldly 
died,"  J 

1 answer'd  free;  and  turning  I ap- 
peal'd 

To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks 
averse, 

To  her  full  height  her  stately  stat- 
ure draws; 

“ My  youth,"  she  said  was  blasted 
with  a curse  : 

This  woman  was  the  cause. 

I was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad 
place, 

Which  men  call'd  Aulis  in  those 


“ The  high  masts  flicker'd  as  they  lav 
afloat ; J 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver’d 
and  the  shore ; 

The  bright  death  quiver’d  at  the  vie- 
tim's  throat ; 

Touch'd ; and  I knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  a downward 
brow  : 

“ I would  the  white  cold  heavy- 
plunging  foam, 

Whirl’d  by  the  wind,  had  roll’d  me 
deep  below, 

Then  when  I left  my  home." 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the 
silence  drear, 

As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a sleeping 

Sudden  I heard  a voice  that  cried 
“Come  here, 

That  I may  look  on  thee." 

I turning  saw,  throned  on  a flowery 
rise, 

One  sitting  on  a crimson  scarf  un- 
roll'd ; 

A queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and 
bold  black  eyes, 

Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,  flashing  forth  a haughty  smile, 
began : 

“I  govern'd  men  by  change,  and 
so  I sway'd 

All  moods.  'Tis  long  since  I have 
seen  a man. 

Once,  like  the  moon,  I made 


iron  years : 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  fac< 
i,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

“Still  strove  to  speak:  my  voice  m 
thick  with  sighs 

-As  in  a dream.  Dimly  I coul 
descry 

The  stem  black-bearded  kings  wit 
wolfish  eyes, 

Waiting  to  see  me  die. 


“The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the 
blood 

According  to  my  humor  ebb  and 
flow. 

I have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 

f hat  makes  my  only  woe. 

“ Nay  — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I could 
not  bend 

One  will ; nor  tame  and  tutor  with 
mine  eye 


64- 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  W OMEN, 


That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar. 
Prythee,  friend, 

Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 

*The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I 
rode  sublime 

On  Fortune’s  neck : we  sat  as  God 
by  God : 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his 
time 

And  flooded  at  our  nod, 

“ We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep, 
and  lit 

Lamps  which  out-burn  d Canopus 
O my  life  • 

In  Egypt ! O the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 

The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

« And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from 
war’s  alarms, 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 

My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my 
arms, 

Contented  there  to  die  ! 

“ And  there  he  died : and  when  I heard 
my  name 

Sigh’d  forth  with  life  I would  not 
brook  my  fear 

Of  the  other : with  a worm  I balk  d 
his  fame.  , , . „ 

What  else  was  left  1 look  here ! 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart, 
and  half 

The  polish’d  argent  of  her  breast  to 
sight  . , 

Laid  bare.  Thereto  she  pointed  with 
a laugh, 

Showing  the  aspick’s  bite.) 


“ I died  a Queen.  The  Roman  soldier 
found 

Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my 
brows,  _ _ , 

A name  f orever ! — lying  robed  and 
crown’d,  t) 

Worthy  a Roman  spouse. 


Her  warbling  voice,  a lyre  of  widest 
range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down 
and  glance  # 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro  ab 
change 

Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I knew  not  for 
delight : . , 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from 
the  ground 

She  rais’d  her  piercing  orbs,  and  nil  d 
with  light 

The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keen- 
est darts ; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning 

All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty 
hearts 

Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.  Then  I 
heard  . , 

A noise  of  some  one  coming  thro 
the  lawn, 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested 
bird 

That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

“ The  torrent  brooks  of  hailow’d  Israel 
From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late 
and  soon,  ' , 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro 
the  dell, 

Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

u Tiin  palmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 
Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with 
beams  divine : A „ 

All  night  the  splinter’d  crags  that  waL 
the  dell  . „ 

With  spires  of  silver  shine. 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sun- 
shine laves 

The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro 
the  door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 


65 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  IV OMEN. 


Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd 
and  tied 

To  where  he  stands,  — so  stood  I 
when  that  flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 

To  save  her  father’s  vow; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite ; 

A maiden  pure;  as  when  she  went 
along 

From  Mizpeh’s  tower’d  gate  with  wel- 
come light. 

With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

Rly  words  leapt  forth  : “Heaven  heads 
the  count  of  crimes 

With  that  wild  oath.”  She  render’d 
answer  high  : 

“Not  so,  nor  once  alone;  a thousand 
times 

I would  be  born  and  die. 

‘ Single  I grew,  like  some  green  plant, 
whose  root 

Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes 
beneath 

Feeding  the  flower;  but  ere  my  flower 
to  fruit 

Changed,  I was  ripe  for  death. 

My  God,  my  land,  my  father  — these 
did  move 

Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature 
gave, 

'Ower’d  softly  with  a threefold  cord 
of  love 

Down  to  a silent  grave. 

And  I went  mourning,  ‘No  fair 
Hebrew  boy 

Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame 
among 

ie  Hebrew  mothers ’ — emptied  of 
all  joy. 

Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 

Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal 
bower, 

e valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that 
glow 

Beneath  the  battled  tower. 


The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us. 
Anon 

We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his 
den ; 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one 
by  one. 

Or,  from  the  darken’d  glen, 

“ Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame,  ® 

And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills 

I heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief 
became 

A solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

“ When  the  next  moon  was  roll’d  into 
the  sky. 

Strength  came  to  me  that  equall’d 
my  desire. 

How  beautiful  a thing  it  was  to  die 

For  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought 
to  dwell, 

That  I subdued  me  to  my  father’s 
will ; 

Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I 
fell, 

Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

“Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hew’d  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth.”  Here  her 
face 

Glow  d as  I look’d  at  her. 

She  lock’d  her  lips : she  left  me  where 
I stood : 

Glory  to  God,”  she  sang,  and  past 
afar, 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the 
wood, 

Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a casement  leans 
his  head, 

When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing 
suddenly,  6 

And  the  old  year  is  dead. 


66 


THE  BLACkBiRD. 


« Alas  ! alas  ! ” a low  voice,  full  of  j 
care,  _ , 

Murmur’d  beside  me : €t  Turn  and 
look  on  me : 

I am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call 
fair, 

If  what  I was  I be. 

« Would  I had  been  some  maiden 
coarse  and  poor  1 

O me,  that  I should  ever  see  the 
light! 

Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger  d Eleanor 
Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night. 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope 
and  trust : 

To  whom  the  Egyptian : “ O,  you 
tamely  died ! . . , 

You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia  s 
waist,  and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro’  her  side.” 


With  that  sharp  sound  the  white 
dawn’s  creeping  beams, 

Stol’n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the 
mystery  . . 

Of  folded  sleep.  The  captain  ot  my 
dreams 

Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden’d  on  the  borders  of 
the  dark, 

Ere  I saw  her,  who  clasp  d in  her 
last  trance 

Her  murder’d  father’s  head,  or  Joan 


That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I from 
sleep 

To  gather  and  tell  o’er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.  With 
what  dull  pain 

Compass’d,  how  eagerly  I sought  to 
strike 

Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams 
again! 

But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a soul  laments,  which  hath 
been  blest, 

Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past 
years, 

In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 

By  signs  or  groans  or  tears ; 

Because  all  words,  tho’  cull’d  with 
choicest  art, 

Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  tin 
sweet,  , 

Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the 
heart 

Faints,  faded  by  its  heat- 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

O blackbird!  sing  me  somethin 
well:  . . . 

While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  the 

I keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitfi 
ground, 

Where  thou  may’st  warble,  eat  an 
dwell. 


of  Arc, 

A light  of  ancient  France ; 

Or  her  who  knew  that  Love  can  van- 
quish Death, 

Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about 
her  king,  , , 

Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath,  . 

Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the 
hidden  ore 


he  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine ; the  range  of  lawn  ai 
park : 

The  unnetted  black-hearts  rip* 
.11  thine,  against  the  garden  wall, 


b,  tho’  I spared  thee  all  the  sprn: 
[?hy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  stdl, 
Yith  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bi 


A golden  bill ! the  silver  tongue, 
Cold  February  loved,  is  dry: 


JIIE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


67 


^ Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 

That  made  thee  famous  once,  when 
young : 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 
Now  thy  flute  notes  are  changed  to 
coarse, 

I hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

r^ke  warning!  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are 
new, 

1 aught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD 
YEAR. 

F cll.  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily 
sighing : 

Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 

For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die ; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

) Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

le  lieth  still : he  doth  not  move  : 
le  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 
le  hath  no  other  life  above. 

Ie  gave  me  a friend,  and  a true  true- 
1 love, 

incl  the  New-year  will  take  ’em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 

1 So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

f, 

[e  froth’d  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 
jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
ut  tho’  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
nd  tho’  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
e was  a friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
Fve  half  a mind  to  die  with  you’ 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die.  I 


He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o’er. 

To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he’ll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

-The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend, 

And  the  New-year  blitheand  bold, 
my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  ou’n. 

How  hard  he  breathes  ! over  the  snow 
I heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 

The  cricket  chirps : the  light  burns 
low : 

*Tis  nearly  twelve  o’clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we’ll  dearly  rue  foryou  ; 
What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? 
Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack!  our  friend  is  gone. 

Close  up  his  eyes  : tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  8tandeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There  s a new  foot  on  the  floor, 
my  friend, 

And  a new  face  at  the  door,  mv 
friend, 

A new  face  at  the  door. 


TO  J.  S. 

The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain, 
blows 

More  softly  round  the  open  wold, 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 
Or  else  I had  not  dared  to  flow  ’ 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a verse  your  holy  woe. 

’Tis  strange  that  those  we  lean  on 
most, 

Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs 
are  nursed, 


68 


ON  A MOURNER. 


Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.  Something  to  love 
He  lends  us;  but,  when  love  is 
grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.  Alas  ! 

In  grief  I am  not  all  uniearn’d ; 
Once  thro’  mine  own  doors  Death  did 
pass ; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  re- 
turn’d. 

He  will  not  smile  — not  speak  to  me 
Once  more.  Two  years  his  chair 
is  seen 

Empty  before  us.  That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I had  not 
been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer  ; for  this  star 

Rose  with  you  thro’  a little  arc 
Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander’d  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark, 

1 knew  your  brother  : his  mute  dust 
I honor  and  his  living  worth  : 

A man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  born  into  the  earth. 

I have  not  look’d  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  hath  fall’n 
asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I : 

I will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

Arnd  tho’  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Drawn  from  the  spirit  thro’  the 
brain, 

I will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

“ Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward 
pain.” 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.  Let  her 
will 

Be  done  — to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I will  not  say,  u God’s  ordinance  ^ 
Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind”  ; 


For  that  is  not  a common  chance 
That  takes  away  a noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 
That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the 
night. 

Vain  solace  ! Memory  standing  near 
Cast  down  her  eyes,  and  in  her 
throat 

Her  voice  seem’d  distant,  and  a tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I wrote. 

1 wrote  1 know  not  what.  In  truth, 
How  should  1 soothe  you  anyway, 
Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I did  wish  to  say  : 

For  he  too  was  a friend  to  me  : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true 
breast 

Bleedeth  for  both  ; yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would 
make 

Grief  more.  ’Twere  better  I 
should  cease 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 
The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in 
peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace : 

Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 
While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  in 
crease, 

And  the  great  ages  onward  roll 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet 
Nothing  comes  to  thee  new  oi 
strange. 

Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 
Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  ol 
change. 


ON  A MOURNER. 

i. 

Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies, 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 
To  every  land  beneath  the  skies, 


you  ASK  ME,  WHY,  THO’  ILL  AT  EASE. 


69 


Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with 
base, 

But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place ; 
ii. 

Fills  out  the  homely  quickset-screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe, 
Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  drop- 
ping snipe, 

With  moss  and  braidedmarish-pipe; 
hi. 

And  on  thy  heart  a linger  lays, 
Saying,  “ Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 
Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and 
lime 

Put  forth  and  feel  a gladder  clime.” 

IV. 

And  murmurs  of  a deeper  voice, 

Going  before  to  some  far  shrine, 
Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger 
choice. 

Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  Will  that  closes  thine. 

v. 

And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  for- 
lorn, 

"°me  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse'  and 
bride, 

From  out  the  borders  of  the  morn, 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them 
i born. 

VI. 

tnd  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 
The  blackness  round  the  tombing 
sod, 

’too’  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 
1 Monies  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet 
have  trod, 

And  Virtue,  like  a household  god 

VII. 

romising  empire  ; such  as  those 
Once  heard  at  dead  of  night  to  greet 
■o y’s  wandering  prince,  so  that  he 
rose 


With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho’  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist. 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends 
or  foes 

A man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A land  of  settled  government, 

A land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where  Freedom  slowly  broadens 
down 

From  precedent  to  precedent  : 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive 
thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and 
spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a time 
When  single  thought  is  civil 
crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute ; 

Tho’  Power  should  make  from  land 
to  land 

The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great— 
Tho*  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden 
sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 
Wild  wind  ! I seek  a warmer  sky, 
And  I will  see  before  I die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet: 
Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights* 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 


70 


LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND. 


There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

Self-gather’d  in  her  prophet-mind, 
But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro’  town  and 
field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal  d 
The  fulness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down  : 
Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown  ; 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a thousand  years 
Is  in  them.  May  perpetual  youth 
Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears  ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and 
shine,  , 

Make  bright  our  days  and  lignt 
our  dreams,  # 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  ! 


From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  foT 

day, 

Tho’  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the 
winds ; 

But  let  her  herald,  Keverence,  fly 
Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of 
minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the 
years : 

Cut  Prejudice  against  the  gram: 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gam  : 
Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days . 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  oyermuoh  : 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw ; 
Nor  master’d  by  some  modern  term  , 
Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but 
firm : 

And  in  its  season  bring  the  law ; 


Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far- 
brought  _ . -i 

From  out  the  storied  Past,  and 
used  . 

Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro’  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn’d  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen, 
friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a hasty  time, 

Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
, The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble 
wings 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 


That  from  Discussion’s  lip  may  fall 
With  Life,  that,  working  strongly, 
binds — . 

Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interest  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm, 

And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long. 
Thro’  many  agents  making  strong, 
Matures  the  individual  form. 


Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degree 
Ail  Vmt.  the  basis  of  the  soul. 


So  let  the  change  which  comes  b 
free 

To  ingroove  itself  with  that  whic 

flies,  . . 

And  work,  a joint  of  state,  that  pin 
Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA  IN  1782. 


71 


A saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act; 

For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 
Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev’n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A motion  toiling  in  the  gloom — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 
Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A slow-develop’d  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a painful  school ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 
New  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 

But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are 
dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd, 

Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 
Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind; 

A wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head ; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 
That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

Oh  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 
Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 
Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war 

[f  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 

Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall 
close, 

That  Principles  are  rain’d  in  blood  ; 

^ot  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro’  shame  and 
guilt, 

But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 
Vould  pace  the  troubled  land,  like 
Peace ; 

lot  less,  tho’  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and 
word. 


Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the 
sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword 

away  — 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that 
broke 

From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should 
rise 

Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one 
stroke : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 

As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor 
wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA 
IN  1782. 

O thou,  that  sendest  out  the  man 
To  rule  by  land  and  sea, 

Strong  mother  of  a Lion-line, 

Be  proud  of  those  strong  sons  of  thine 
Who  wrench’d  their  rights  from 
thee ! 

What  wonder,  if  in  noble  heat 
Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 
Retaught  the  lesson  thou  hadst  taught. 
And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought  — 
Who  sprang  from  English  blood  ! 

But  Thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy, 

Lift  up  thy  rocky  face. 

And  shatter,  when  the  storms  are 
black, 

In  many  a streaming  torrent  back. 

The  seas  that  shock  thy  base  ! 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 
The  growing  world  assume, 

Thy  work  is  thine  — The  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden 
smote 

Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 


72 


THE  GOOSE. 


THE  GOOSE. 

I knew  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 

Her  rags  scarce  held  together ; 

There  strode  a stranger  to  the  door. 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter’d  rhyme  and  reason, 

“ Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you 
warm, 

It  is  a stormy  season.” 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg, 
A goose  — ’twas  no  great  matter. 
The  goose  let  fall  a golden  egg 
With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the 

pelf,  . 

And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors ; 

And  bless’dherself,  and  cursed  herselt, 
And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft, 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doff  d, 
The  parson  smirk’d  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid, 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder : 
But  ah ! the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack’d  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter’d  here,  it  chuckled  there ; 

It  stirr’d  the  old  wife’s  mettle : 

She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl’d  the  pan  and  kettle. 


“ A quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note ! ” 
Then  wax’d  her  anger  stronger. 

“ Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her 
throat, 

I will  not  bear  it  longer.” 

Then  yelp’d  the  cur,  and  yawl’d  the 
cat; 

Ban  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer. 

The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that, 
And  fill’d  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  flounder’d  all  together, 

There  strode  a stranger  to  the  door. 
And  it  was  windy  weather : 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter’d  words  of  scorning ; 

“ So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a stormy  morning.” 

The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and 
plain, 

And  round  the  attics  rumbled, 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again, 

And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up, 
And  a whirlwind  clear’d  the  larder : 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger. 
Quoth  she,  “ The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger! 


ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  EPIC. 

At  Francis  Allen’s  on  the  Christmas- 
eve, — 

The  game  of  forfeits  done  — the  girls 
all  kiss'd 

Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past 
away  — 

The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard 
Hall, 

The  host,  and  I sat  round  the  wassail- 
bowl, 

Then  half-way  ebb'd:  and  there  we 
held  a talk, 

How  all  the  old  honor  had  from 
Christmas  gone, 

Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some 
odd  games 

.In  some  odd  nooks  like  this ; till  I, 
tired  out 

With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the 
pond, 

Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the 

, outer  edge, 

I bump  d the  ice  into  three  several 
stars, 

Fell  in  a doze;  and  half  awake  I 
heard 

The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider 
sweeps, 

Now  harping  on  the  church-commis- 
sioners, 

Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism ; 

Until  I woke,  and  found  him  settled 
down 

Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 

vight  thro'  the  world,  “ at  home  was 
little  left, 


And  none  abroad : there  was  no 
anchor,  none, 

To  hold  by,"  Francis,  laughing,  clapt 
his  hand 

On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  “ I hold 
by  him." 

“And  I,"  quoth  Everard,  “by  the 
wassail-bowl." 

Why  yes,  I said,  “we  knew  your 
gift  that  way 

At  college:  but  another  which  you 
had, 

I mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it 
then), 

What  came  of  that  ? " “ You  know," 
said  Frank,  “ he  burnt 

His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve 
books " — 

And  then  to  me  demanding  why? 

“ Oh,  sir, 

He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said, 
or  else 

Something  so  said  'twas  nothing  — 
that  a truth 

Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the 
day: 

God  knows  : he  has  a mint  of  reasons : 
ask. 

It  pleased  me  well  enough."  “Nay 
nay,"  said  Hall, 

“Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic 
times  ? 

For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mas- 
todon, 

Nor  we  those>times;  and  why  should 
any  man 

Remodel  models  ? these  twelve  books 
of  mine 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR- 


74  

^ 7 . Uintr  I The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous 

Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing-  gknights 

worth’  , « t„ttpr  Whereof  this  world  holds  record. 

Mere  chaff  and  draff  much  better  W! here°  uch  a sleep 

burnt.  “ But  1,  Thpv  sleep  — the  men  I loved.  I 

Said  Francis,  “pick’d  the  eleventh  They  sleep  ^ ^ 

from  this  hearth  chall  nevermore,  at  any  future  time, 

And  have  it:  keep  a thing,  its  use  St^  our  souis  with  talk  of  knightly 

will  come.  . „ deeds 

1 hoard  it  as  a sugar-plum  for  Holmes.  about  the  gardens  and  the 

He  laugh’d,  and  I,  tho  sleepy,  like  a h8aUg 

horse  . • . , of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick  ^ -sh  by  this  people  which  I 

my  ears;  ..  I made  

For  I remember’d  Everard  s college  ,pho>  Merlin  sware  that  I should  come 

When  wewere  Freshmen  : then  at  my  ^ rule  once  more  — but  let  what  will 
request  , ^e  be 

He  brought  it ; and  the  poet  Utt  e j am  so  d’eep’iy  smitten  thro’  the  helm 

urged’  i i nf  disnarage-  That  without  help  I cannot  last  till 

But  with  some  prelude  of  disparage  morn. 

ment,  . 1 Thnu  therefore  take  my  brand  Ex- 

Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  Thou  there^ 

and  aes,  .1  wruipb  was  my  pride*,  for  thou  re- 

Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result.  memberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 

an  arm 

MORTE  D’ ARTHUR.  | Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  clothedf®’white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
Among°the  mountains  by  the  winter  , word  — and  how  I row’d 

Until  King  Arthur’s  table,  man  by  t0*k  and  have  worn  it  like  a 

man,  , . king* 

Had  fallen  in  Lyonness  about  their  wheresoever  I am  sung  or 

Lord,  1 ’ ■ ■ ’ 


King  Arthur  : then,  because  his  wound 
was  deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his 

And  borehim  to  a chapel  nigh  the 
field, 

A broken  chancel  with  a broken .eross. 
That  stood  on  a dark  strait  of  barre 
land.  . 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a great  water,  and  the  moon  was 

full.  , , Q‘ 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 

Bedivere: 

“ The  sequel  of  to  day  unsolders  all 


In  aftertime,  this  also  shal^be^7  ’ 
But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibu, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly 
bring  me  word.” 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

“It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro  the 
A litthTthing  may  harm  a wounded 
Yet  I thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


75 


Watch  what  I see,  and  lightly  bring 
thee  word.” 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin’d  shrine 
he  stept 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 
tombs, 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  an- 
cient men, 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He 
stepping  down 

By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 
rock, 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake, 
lhere  drew  he  forth  the  brand 
Excalibur, 

And  o’er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon, 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a long  cloud 
ran  forth  ' 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 
the  hilt : 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  dia- 
mond sparks, 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth- 
work 

Tn  S"b‘1!lt  iewelr-v-  He  gazed  so  long 

lhat  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as 
he  stood, 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 
mind, 

In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it 
seem’d 

Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal’d 

1 here  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 

That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 
marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere : 

’‘Hast  thou  perform’d  my  mission 
which  I gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what 


hast  heard  ? ” 


| 

J And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir 
Bedivere : 

T ^ ^eard  the  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds, 

^nd  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the 
crag.” 


To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 
and  pale  : 

Thou  hast  betray’d  thy  nature  and 
thy  name, 

Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  be- 
seem’d 

Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a noble  knight  • 
bor  surer  sign  had  follow’d,  either 
hand. 

Or  voice,  or  else  a motion  of  the  mere. 
Ihis  is  a shameful  thing  for  men  to 
lie. 

Yet  now,  I charge  thee,  quickly  go 
again 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 
thing 

I bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  brine 
me  word.” 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 
time 

Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside 
the  mere. 

Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix’d  in 
thought ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the 
hilt. 

How  curiously  and  strangely  chased 
he  smote  J 

His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud 
“And  if  indeed  I cast  the  brand 
away. 

Surely  a precious  thing,  one  worthv 
note,  J 

Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the 
earth, 

Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes 
of  many  men. 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 
were  done  ? 

What  harm,  undone!  deep  harm  to 
disobey, 

Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule 

Were  it  well  to  obey  them,  if  a king 
demand 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  * 

Ine  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 
he  does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 

Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty 
breath 

And  rumors  of  a doubt?  but  were 
this  kept, 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


76 


Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of 
mighty  kings,  . » 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a joust  of 
arms,  _ ^ v 

Saying,  ‘King  Arthur’s  sword, Excaii- 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 
Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in 
the  deeps  , ...  , 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills. 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 
aftertime 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  tame 
were  lost.”  . 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own 
conceit, 

And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the 
wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 
heavily: 

“ What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ? or  what 
hast  heard'?” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  bir 
Bedivere : 

“I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the 

And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur, 
much  in  wrath : 

trAh.  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue,. 
Unkniglitly,  traitor-hearted!  Woe  is 
me!  . 

Authority  forgets  a dying  king, 

Laid  widow’d  of  the  power  in  his 

That  bow’d  the  will.  I see  thee  what 
thou  art, 

For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my 
knights,  , 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the 
precious  hilt ; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a , gtr 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the : eyes. 
Yet  for  a man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get 
thee  hence: 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 


I will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my 
hands.” 


nanus. 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and 
ran,  # 

And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 
plunged 

Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch  a 
the  sword, 

And  strongly  wheel’d  and  threw  it. 
The  great  brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of 
the  moon, 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and 
whirl’d  in  an  arch, 

Shot  like  a streamer  of  the  northern 
morn,  . 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  ot  win- 
ter shock 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern 

So  flash’dand  fell  the  brand  Excalibur : 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 
arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, , j 

And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish’d  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere. 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the 
King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing 
thicker  breath : 

« Now  see  I by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 
done.  , . , 

Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 
or  seen'?”  c. 

And  answer  made  the  bold  oir 
Bedivere: 

“ Sir  King,  I closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 
the  gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  1 neve. 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  1 

Not  tho’1 1 live  three  lives  of  mortal 
men, 

So  great  a miracle  as  yonder  nilt 
Then  with  both  hands  I flung  im 
wheeling  him ; 

But  when  I look’d  again,  behold  ar 
arm, 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


77 


Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish’d  him 

I hree  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere.” 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur, 
breathing  hard : 

“ My  end  draws  nigh ; ’tis  time  that  I 
were  gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 
my  weight, 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I 
fear 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I 
shall  die.” 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he 
half  rose. 

Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his 
arm, 

And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 
eyes 

As  in  a picture.  Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro’  his  tears, 
Ana  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 
not  words, 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 
one  knee, 

0 er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands, 

And  rising  bore  him  thro’  the  place 
of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk’d.  King  Arthur 
panted  hard, 

hke  one  that  feels  a nightmare  on 
his  bed 

^hen  all  the  house  is  mute.  So 
' sigh’d  the  King, 
buttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear 
“ Quick,  quick ! 

fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I shall  die.” 
dut  the  other  swiftly  strode  from 
ridge  to  ridge, 

lothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 
as  he  walk’d, 

arger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
e heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 
cry 

efore.  His  own  thought  drove  him 
like  a goad. 

ry  clash’d  his  harness  in  the  icy 
caves  J 


And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left 
and  right 

The  bare  black  cliff  clang’d  round 
him,  as  he  based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 
rang 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 
heels  — 

And  on  a sudden,  lo ! the  level  lake 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter 
moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a 
dusky  barge, 

Dark  as  a funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 
stern, 

Beneath  them ; and  descending  they 
were  ware 

That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with 
stately  forms 

Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a 
dream  — by  these 

Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  — 
and  from  them  rose 

A cry  that  shiver’d  to  the  tingling 
stars,  6 

And,  as  it  were  one  voice  an  agony 

Of  lamentation,  like  a wind,  that 
shrills 

All  night  in  a waste  land,  where  no 
one  comes, 

Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of 
the  world. 

Then  murmur’d  Arthur,  “ Place  me 
in  the  barge,” 

And  to  the  barge  they  came.  There 
those  three  Queens 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the 
King,  and  wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them 
all 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her 

a „ lap> 

And  loosed  the  shatter’d  casque,  and 
chafed  his  hands, 

And  call’d  him  by  his  name,  com- 
plaining loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his 
brow 

Striped  with  dark  blood:  for  all  his 
face  was  white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither’d 
moon 


78 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR- 


Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the 
springing  east;  > ,,, 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash  a 
with  drops 

Of  onset ; and  the  light  and  lustrous 
curls — . . 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a rising 
sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne  — were 
parch’d  with  dust ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging 
loose, 

Mix’d  with  the  knightly  growth  that 
fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a shatter’d  column  lay  the 
King  > , . , , 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 
in  rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a star  of  tourna- 
ment, 

Shot  thro’  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 
charged  . 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  hold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere 

“ Ah ! my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 

I go? 

Where  shall  I hide  my  forehead  and 
my  eyes  ? 

For  now  I see  the  true  old  times  are 
dead, 

When  every  morning  brought  a noble 
chance, 

And  every  chance  brought  out  a noble 
knight. 

Such  times  have  been  not  since  the 
light  that  led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  round  table  is 
dissolved 

Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 
world ; 

And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companion- 

less, 

And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and 
the  years, 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 
minds.” 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  trom 
the  barge: 

* The  old  order  changetli,  yielding 
place  to  new, 


And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 
the  world. 

Comfort  thyself : what  comfort  is  in 
me  ? 

I have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 
have  done 

May  He  within  Himself  make  pure! 
but  thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face 
again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are 
wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.  Where- 
fore,' let  thy  voice 

Bise  like  a fountain  for  me  night  and 
day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep 
or  goats 

That  nourish  a blind  life  within  the 
brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 
of  prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who 
call  them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 
way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet 
of  God. 

But  now  farewell.  I am  going  a long 
way 

With  these  thou  seest  — if  indeed  1 


go  — 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 
doubt) 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 
snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  1 
lies  , . 

Deep-meadow’d,  happy,  fair  witl 
orchard-lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown’d  witl 
summer  sea, 

Where  I will  heal  me  of  my  gnevou 
wound.” 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oa 
and  sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  tui 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a wild  carol  ere  he 

i death, 


THE  GARDENER' S DAUGHTER. 


79 


Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  tn kes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the 
hull 

Look’d  one  black  dot  against  the  verse 
of  dawn, 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died 
away. 

Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light, 
that  long 

Had  wink’d  and  threaten’d  darkness 
flared  and  fell  : 

At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep 
with  sound, 

And  waked  with  silence,  grunted 
Good ! but  we 

Sat  rapt:  it  was  the  tone  with  which 
he  read  — 

Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here 
and  there 

Redeem’d  it  from  the  charge  of  noth- 
ingness — 

Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized 
his  work ; 

I know  not:  but  we  sitting,  as  I said, 

I cock  crew  loud;  as  at  that  time 
of  year 

The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for 
dawn  : 

Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a man 
ill-used, 

‘There  now  — that’s  nothing!”  drew 
, a little  back, 

And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoul- 
der’d  log, 

" hat  s^nt  a blast  of  sparkles  up  the 
flue  : 

Lnd  so  to  bed ; where  yet  in  sleep  I 
I seem’d 

° sail  with  Arthur,  under  looming 
shores, 

oint  after  point;  till  on  to  dawn 
I # when  dreams 
egin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of 
S day, 


King  Arthur,  like  a modern  gentle- 
man 

Of  stateliest  port;  and  all  the  people 
cried,  v 

“Arthur  is  come  again:  he  cannot 
die. 

I hon  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills 
behind 

Repeated  Come  again,  and  thrice 
as  fair; 

And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed- 
“ Come 

With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall 
be  no  more.” 

At  this  a hundred  bells  began  to  peal 

l hat  with  the  sound  I woke,  and  heard 
indeed 

The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the 
Chnstmas-morn. 


3 me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a 
L crowd, 

iere  came  a bark  that,  blowing  for- 
ward, bore 


THE  GARDENER’S 
DAUGHTER; 

OR,  THE  PICTURES. 

T'"S  ™ay  ing  is  the  morning  of  the 

When  I and  Eustace  from  the  citv 
went  J 

lo  see  the  Gardener’s  Daughter-  T 
and  he,  A 

Brothers  in  Art;  a friendship  so  com- 
plete 

I ortion  d in  halves  between  us,  that 
we  grew 

The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 
My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for 
Hercules; 

So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of 
breast. 

He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love 
and  draws  ’ 

The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
ceHam  miracle  of  symmetry 

A miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 

Summ  d up  and  closed  in  little* 

Juliet,  she 

So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit- 
oh, she 

To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless 
moons, 

The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 


80 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


Unto  the  shores  of  nothing ! Know 
you  not 

Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of 
love, 

To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he 
found 

Empire  for  life  ? but  Eustace  painted 
her, 

And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us 
then, 

« When  will  you  paint  like  this?  ” and 
I replied, 

(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half 
in  jest,)  f 

“ ’Tis  not  your  work,  but  Love’s. 
Love,  unperceived, 

A more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all, 

Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you, 
made  those  eyes 

Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that 
hair 

More  black  than  ai,hbuds  in  the  front 
of  March.” 

And  Juliet  answer’d  laughing,  “Go 
and  see 

The  Gardener’s  daughter:  trust  me, 
after  that, 

You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  mas- 
terpiece.” 

And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we 
went. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor 
quite 

Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I 
love. 

News  from  the  humming  city  comes 
to  it 

In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage 
bells ; 

And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves, 
you  hear 

The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster 
clock ; 

Although  between  it  and  the  garden 
lies 

A league  of  grass,  wash’d  by  a slow 
broad  stream, 

That,  stirr’d  with  languid  pulses  of  the 
oar, 

Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 

Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a 
bridge 


Crown’d  with  the  minster-towers. 

The  fields  between 

Are  dewy -fresh,  browsed  by  deep 
udder’d  kine, 

And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers 
low, 

The  lime  a summer  home  of  murmur 
ous  wings. 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in 
herself, 

Grew,  seldom  seen  ; not  less  among  us 
lived 

Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.  Who  had 
not  heard 

Of  Rose,  the  Gardener’s  daughter1 
Where  was  he, 

So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 

At  such  a distance  from  his  youth  in 
grief, 

That,  having  seen,  forgot?  The  com- 
mon mouth, 

So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise 
of  her 

Grew  oratory.  Such  a lord  is  Love, 

And  Beauty  such  a mistress  of  the 
world. 

And  if  I said  that  Fancy,  led  by 
Love, 

Would  play  with  flying  forms  and 
images, 

Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 

I look’d  upon  her,  when  I heard  her 
name 

My  heart  was  like  a prophet  to  my 
heart, 

And  told  me  I should  lcve.  A crowd 
of  hopes, 

That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like 
winged  seeds, 

Born  out  of  everything  I heard  and 
saw, 

Flutter’d  about  my  senses  and  my  soul ; 

And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of 
balm 

To  one  that  travels  quickly*  made  the 
air 

Of  Life  delicious,  and  all  kinds  of 
thought, 

That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than 
the  dream 

Dream’d  by  a happy  man,  when  the 
dark  East, 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


81 


Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal 
morn. 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory 
folds  y 

For  ever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 

To  see  her.  All  the  land  in  flowery 
squares. 

Beneath  a broad  and  equal-blowing 
wind, 

Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one 
large  cloud 

Brew  downward : but  all  else  of 
heaven  was  pure 

ITp  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge 
to  verge. 

And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel. 
And  now, 

As  tho’  'twere  yesterday,  as  tho’  it 
were 

The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with 
all  its  sound, 

(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the 
life  of  these,) 

Rings  in  mine  ears.  The  steer  forgot 
to  graze, 

And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the 
pathway,  stood, 

Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor 
field, 

And  lowing  to  his  fellows.  From  the 
woods 

Came  voices  of  the  well-contented 
doves. 

The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes 
for  joy. 

But  shook  his  song  together  as  he 
near’d 

His  happy  home,  the  ground.  To  left 
and  right, 

The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the 
hills ; 

The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm ; 

The  redcap  whistled ; and  the  night- 
ingale 

Sang  loud,  as  tho’  he  were  the  bird  of 
day. 

And  Eustace  turn’d,  and  smiling 
said  to  me, 

'Hear  how  the  bushes  echo!  bv  mv 
life,  y 

These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts. 
Think  you  they  sing 


Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they 
sing?  J 

And  would  they  praise  the  heavens 
for  what  they  have  ? ” 

And  I made  answer,  “ Were  there 
nothing  else 

For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but 
only  love, 

That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for 
praise.” 

Lightly  he  laugh’d,  as  one  that  read 
my  thought, 

And  on  we  went;  but  ere  an  hour  had 
pass’d, 

We  reach’d  a meadow  slanting  to  the 
North ; 

Bown  which  a well-worn  pathway 
courted  us 

To  one  green  wicket  in  a privet  hedge ; 

This,  yielding,  gave  into  a grassy 
walk 

Thro'  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly 
pruned ; 

And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  per- 
fume, blew 

Beyond  us,  as  we  enter’d  in  the  cool. 

The  garden  stretches  southward.  In 
the  midst 

A cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers 
of  shade. 

The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  mo- 
mently 

The  twinkling  laurel  scatter’d  silver 
lights. 

Eustace,”  I said,  “ this  wonder 
keeps  the  house.” 

He  nodded,  but  a moment  afterwards 

He  cried,  “ Look  ! look ! ” Before  he 
ceased  I turn’d, 

And,  ere  a star  can  wink,  beheld  her 
there. 

For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an 
Eastern  rose, 

That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night’s 
gale  had  caught, 

And  blown  across  the  walk.  One  arm 
aloft  — 

Gown’d  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to 
the  shape  — 

Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she 
stood. 


M 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER . 


A single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown 
hair 

Pour’d  on  one  side  : the  shadow  of  the 
flowers 

Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wav- 
ering 

Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her 
waist— - 

Ah,  happy  shade  — and  still  went 
wavering  down, 

But,  ere  it  touch’d  a foot,  that  might 
have  danced 

The  greensward  into  greener  circles, 
dipt. 

And  mix’d  with  shadows  of  the  com- 
mon ground 

But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows, 
and  sunn’d 

Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe 
bloom, 

And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against 
her  lips, 

And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a 
breast 

As  never  pencil  drew.  Half  light, 
half  shade, 

She  stood,  a sight  to  make  an  old 
man  young. 

So  rapt,  we  near’d  the  house ; but 
she,  a Rose 

In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant 
toil, 

Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tend- 
ance turn’d 

Into  the  world  without;  till  close  at 
hand, 

And  almost  ere  I knew  mine  own  in- 


tent, 

This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  ot 
that  air 

Which  brooded  round  about  her  : 

“ Ah,  one  rose, 

One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers 
cull’d, 

Were  worth  a hundred  kisses  press  d 
on  lips 

Less  exquisite  than  thine.” 

She  look’d : but  all 

Suffused  with  blushes  — neither  self- 
possess’d  . 

Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood 
and  that, 


Divided  in  a graceful  quiet  — paused^ 

And  dr  opt  the  branch  she  held,  and 
turning,  wound 

Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr’d 
her  lips 

Tor  some  sweet  answer,  tho’  no  answer 
came, 

Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 

And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue- 
like, 

In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 

Saw  her  no  more,  altho’  I linger’d 
there 

Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Loves 
white  star 

Beam’d  thro’  the  thicken’d  cedar  in 
the  dusk. 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  live- 
long way 

With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter 
me. 

“ Now,”  said  he,  “will  you  climb  the 
top  of  Art. 

You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to 
dim 

The  Titianic  Flora.  Will  you  match 

My  Juliet L you,  not  you,— the  Mas- 
ter, Love,  ft 

A more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all. 

So  home  I went,  but  could  not  sleep 
for  joy, 

Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the 
gloom, 

Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o er  and 
o’er 

And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the 
glance 

That  graced  the  giving  — such  a noise 
of  life 

Swarm’d  in  the  golden  present,  such 
a voice 

Call’d  to  me  from  the  years  to  come, 
and  such 

A length  of  bright  horizon  nmm  d the 

And  all  "that  night  I heard  the  watch- 
man  peal  - 

The  sliding  season:  all  that  night  1 
heard 

The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy 
hours. 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


83 


The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all 
good, 

O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded 
wings, 

Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 

To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and 
heir  to  all, 

Made  this  night  thus.  Henceforward 
squall  nor  storm 

Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where 
she  dwelt. 

Light  pretexts  drew  me;  sometimes  a 
Dutch  love 

Eor  tulips;  then  for  roses,  moss  or 
musk, 

To  grace  my  city  rooms ; or  fruits  and 
cream 

Served  in  the  weeping  elm ; and  more 
and  more 

A word  could  bring  the  color  to  my 
cheek ; 

A thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with 
happy  dew ; 

Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with 
each 

The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 

One  after  one,  thro'  that  still  garden 
pass'd ; 

Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar 
flower 

Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the 
shade  ; 

And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some 
new  grace 

Or  seem’d  to  touch  her,  so  that  day 
by  day, 

Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly 
known, 

Her  beauty  grew ; till  Autumn  brought 
an  hour 

Eor  Eustace,  when  I heard  his  deep 
“I  will," 

Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a God 
to  hold 

Erom  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds  : but 
I rose  up 

Eull  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her 
dark  eyes 

Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I 
reach'd 


The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  stand- 
ing there. 

There  sat  we  down  upon'  a garden 
mound, 

Two  mutually  enfolded;  Love,  the 
third, 

Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 

Enwound  us  both ; and  over  many  a 
range 

Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral 
towers, 

Across  a hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 

Reveal'd  their  shining  windows  : from 
them  clash'd 

The  bells ; we  listen’d  ; with  the  time 
we  play’d, 

We  spoke  of  other  things;  we  coursed 
about 

The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near 
and  near, 

Like  doves  about  a dovecote,  wheeling 
round 

The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I spoke 
to  her, 

Requiring,  tho'  I knew  it  was  mine 
own, 

Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I took  to 
hear. 

Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 

A woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I 
loved; 

And  in  that  time  and  place  she  an- 
swer’d me, 

And  in  the  compass  of  three  little 
words, 

More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 

The  silver  fragments  of  a broken 
voice, 

Made  me  most  happy,  faltering,  “ I am 
thine." 

Shall  I cease  here  ? Is  this  enough 
to  say 

That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest 
hopes, 

By  its  ovvn  energy  fulfill'd  itself, 

Merged  in  completion  ? 3Yould  you 
learn  at  full 

How  passion  rose  thro’  circumstantial 
grades 

Beyond  all  grades  develop'd  ? and  in 
deed 


84 


DORA. 


I lmd  not  staid  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 

But  while  I mused  came  Memory  with 
sad  eyes, 

Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my 
youth ; 

And  while  I mused,  Love  with  knit 
brows  went  by, 

And  with  a flying  finger  swept  my  lips, 

And  spake,  “ Be  wise  : not  easily  for- 
given 

Are  those,  who  setting  wide  the  doors 
that  bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the 
heart, 

Let  in  the  day.”  Here,  then,  my  words 
have  end. 

Yet  might  I tell  of  meetings,  of  fare- 
wells — 

Of  that  which  came  between,  more 
sweet  than  each, 

In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the 
leaves 

That  tremble  round  a nightingale  — 
in  sighs 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex’d  for  ut- 
terance, 

Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.  Might 
I not  tell 

Of  difference,  reconcilement,  pledges 
given, 

And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need 
of  vows, 

And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one 
wild  leap 

Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as 
above 

The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces 
pale 

Sow’d  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleet- 
ing stars  ; 

Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent- 
lit, 

Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river- 
shores, 

And  in  the  hollows  ; or  as  once  we  met 

Unheedful,  tho’  beneath  a whispering 
rain 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of 
sighing  wind, 

And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby , Sleep. 

But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have 
been  intent 


On  that  veil’d  picture  — veil’d,  for 
what  it  holds 

May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common 
day. 

This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.  Raise 
thy  soul; 

Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine 
eyes : the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 
As  I beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 
My  first,  last  love;  the  idol  of  my 
youth, 

The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas ! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine 
age. 

DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.  William  was  his 
son, 

And  she  his  niece.  He  often  look’d 
at  them, 

And  often  thought,  “ I’ll  make  them 
man  and  wife.” 

Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle’s  will  in  all, 
And  yearn’d  towards  William ; but  the 
youth,  because 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the 
house, 

Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a day 
When  Allan  call’d  his  son,  and  said, 
“ My  son : 

I married  late,  but  I would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I 
die : 

And  I have  set  my  heart  upon  a match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora;  she  is 
well 

To  look  to  ; thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother’s  daughter  : he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and 
he  died 

In  foreign  lands ; but  for  his  sake  I 
bred 

His  daughter  Dora  : take  her  for  your 
wife ; 

For  I have  wish’d  this  marriage,  night 
and  day, 


DORA. 


85 


For  many  years."  But  William  an- 
swer'd short ; 

" 1 cannot  marry  Dora  ; by  my  life, 

1 will  not  marry  Dora."  Then  the  old 
man 

W as  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands, 
and  said : 

“ You  will  not,  boy!  you  dare  to  an- 
swer thus  ! 

But  in  my  time  a father's  word  was 
law, 

And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.  Look 
to  it ; 

Consider,  William  : take  a month  to 
think, 

And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  mv 
wish ; 

Cr,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you 
shall  pack, 

And  never  more  darken  my  doors 
again." 

But  William  answer'd  madly;  bit  his 
lips, 

And  broke  away.  The  more  he  look’d 
at  her 

The  less  he  liked  her ; and  his  ways 
were  harsh  ; 

But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.  Then 
before 

The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father’s 
house, 

And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the 
fields ; 

And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd 
and  wed 

A laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  wlien  the  bells  were  rinjnnir 
Allan  call'd 

His  niece  and  said : “ My  girl,  I love 
you  well ; 

But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was 
my  son, 

Or  change  a word  with  her  he  calls  his 
wife, 

My  home  is  none  of  yours.  My  will 
is  law." 

Amd  Dora  promised,  being  meek.  She 
thought, 

‘ cannot  be  : my  uncle's  mind  will 
change ! " 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was 
born  a boy 


To  William ; then  distresses  came  on 
him  ; 

And  day  by  day  he  pass’d  his  father's 
gate. 

Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd 
him  not. 

But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could 
save. 

And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did 
they  know 

Who  sent  it ; till  at  last  a fever  seized 

On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he 
died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.  Mary  sat 

And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy, 
and  thought 

Hard  things  of  Dora.  Dora  came  and 
said : 

“ I have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now, 

And  I have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro’ 
me 

This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 

But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that’s 
gone, 

And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 
chose, 

And  for  this  orphan,  I am  come  to 
you: 

You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these 
five  years 

So  full  a harvest:  let  me  take  the 
boy, 

And  I will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 

Among  the  wheat ; that  when  his  heart 
is  glad 

Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the 
boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him 
that's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went 
her  way 

Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a 
mound 

That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies 
grew. 

Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 

And  spied  her  not ; for  none  of  all  his 
men 

Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the 
child ; 

And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone 
to  him. 


Se> 


DORA. 


But  her  heart  fail’d  her ; and  the  reap- 
ers reap’d, 

And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 
dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 
and  took 

The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the 
mound  ; 

And  made  a little  wreath  of  all  the 
flowers  . _ , . 

That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his 
hat  , 

To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle  s 
eye. 

Then  when  the  farmer  pass’d  into  the 
field 

He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at 
work, 

And  came  and  said : “ Where  were  you 
yesterday  ? 

Whose  child  is  that  ? What  are  you 
doing  here  ? ” 

So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 

And  answer’d  softly,  “ lhis  is  Wil- 
liam’s child  1 ” 

t<  And  did  I not,”  said  Allan,  did  1 
not 

Forbid  you,  Dora  ? ” Dora  said  again  . 

“ Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the 
child, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  ol  him 
that’s  gone ! ” 

And  Allan  said,  “I  see  it  is  a trick 

Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman 
there. 

I must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  . 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet 
you  dared 

To  slight  it.  Well  — for  I will  take 
the  boy ; 

But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me 
more.”  . 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy  that  cried 
aloud 

And  struggled  hard.  The  wreath  of 
flowers  fell 

At  Dora’s  feet.  She  bow’d  upon  her 
hands, 

And  the  boy’s  cry  came  to  her  from  the 
field, 

More  and  more  distant.  She  bow  d 
down  her  head, 


Remembering  the  day  when  first  she 
came, 

And  all  the  things  that  had  been.  She 
bow’d  down 

And  wept  in  secret ; and  the  reapers 
reap’d, 

And  the  sun  fell,  and  ah  the  land  was 
dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary’s  house, 
and  stood 

Upon  the  threshold.  Mary  saw  the 
boy 

Was  not  with  Dora.  She  broke  out 
in  praise 

To  God,  that  help’d  her  in  her  widow- 
hood. 

And  Dora  said,  “ My  uncle  took  the 
boy; 

But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with 
you : 

He  says  that  he  will  never  see  m< 
more.” 

Then  answer’d  Mary,  “ This  shall  never 
be, 

That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble 
on  thyself : 

And,  now  I think,  he  shall  not  have 
the  boy, 

For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and 
to  slight  _ ... 

His  mother;  therefore  thou  and  1 will 


go, 

And  I will  have  my  boy,  and  bring 
him  home ; 

And  I will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee 

But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back 
again, 

Then  thou  and  I will  live  within  one 


house, 

And  work  for  William’s  child,  until 
he  grows 

Of  age  to  help  us.” 

So  the  women  kiss  d 

Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach’d! 
the  farm. 

The  door  was  off  the  latch:  the\ 
peep’d,  and  saw  t f 

The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire 
knees, 

Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  hi 
arm, 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


87 


And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on 
the  cheeks, 

Like  one  that  loved  him : and  the  lad 
stretch'd  out 

And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that 
hung 

From  Allan’s  watch,  and  sparkled  by 
the  fire. 

Then  they  came  in : but  when  the  boy 
beheld 

His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 

And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary 
said  • 

‘ 0 Father!— if  you  let  me  call 
you  so  — 

I never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 

Or  William,  or  this  child ; but  now  I 
come 

For  Dora : take  her  back ; she  loves 
you  well. 

O Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at 

peace 

With  all  men  ; for  I ask’d  him,  and  he 
said, 

He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying 
me  — 

J had  been  a patient  wife : but,  Sir, 
he  said 

That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father 
thus : 

c God  bless  him!’  he  said,  ‘and  may 
he  never  know 

The  troubles  I have  gone  thro’ ! ’ 
Then  he  turn’d 

His  face  and  pass’d  — unhappy  that  I 
am ! 

Rut  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for 
you 

Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn 
to  slight 

His  father’s  memory ; and  take  Dora 
back, 

And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before.” 

50  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 

By  Mary.  There  was  silence  in  the 

room ; 

And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in 
sobs : — 

51  I have  been  to  blame- — to  blame. 

1 have  killed  my  son. 

I have  kill’d  him  — but  I loved  him 
— my  dear  son. 


May  God  forgive  me  ! — I have  been 
to  blame. 

Kiss  me,  my  children.” 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man’s  neck,  and  kiss’d  him 
many  times. 

And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  ro 
morse ; 

And  all  his  love  came  back  a hundred 
fold; 

And  for  three  hours  he  sobb’d  o’er 
William’s  child 

Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together;  and  as 
years 

Went  forward,  Mary  took  another 
mate ; 

But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her 
death. 


• AUDREY  COURT. 

“The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm’d, 
and  not  a room 

For  love  or  money.'  Let  us  picnic 
there 

At  Audley  Court.” 

I spoke,  while  Audley  feast 

Humm  d like  a hive  all  round  the 
narrow  quay, 

To  Francis,  with  a basket  on  his  arm, 

To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat, 

And  breathing  of  the  sea.  “ With  all 
my  heart,” 

Said  Francis.  Then  we  shoulder’d 
thro’  the  swarm, 

And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the 
beach 

To  where  the  bay  runs  up  its  latest 
horn. 

We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly 
lipp’d 

The  flat  red  granite ; so  by  many  a 
sweep 

Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath 
we  reach’d 

The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass’d 
thro’  all 

The  pillar’d  dusk  of  sounding  syc& 
mores, 


88 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


And  cross’d  the  garden  to  the  gar- 
dener’s lodge, 

With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its 
walls 

And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy 
vine. 

There,  on  a slope  of  orchard,  Fran- 
cis laid 

A damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse 
and  hound, 

Brought  out  a dusky  loaf  that  smelt 
of  home, 

And,  half-cut-down,  a pasty  costly- 
made, 

Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  lev- 
eret lay, 

Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden 
yolks 

Imbedded  and  injellied;  last,  with 

A flask  of’  cider  from  his  father’s 
vats, 

Prime,  which  I knew ; and  so  we  sat 
and  eat 

And  talk’d  old  matters  over ; who  was 
dead, 

Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and 
how 

The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent 
the  hall : 

Then  touch’d  upon  the  game,  how 
scarce  it  was 

This  season ; glancing  thence,  dis- 
cuss’d the  farm, 

The  four-field  system,  and  the  price  of 
grain ; 

And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where 
we  split, 

And  came  again  together  on  the  king 

With  heated  faces;  till  he  laugh’d 
aloud ; 

And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin 
hung 

To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine 
and  sang  — 

“Oh!  who  would  fight  and  march 
and  countermarch, 

Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a battle-field, 

And  shovell’d  up  into  some  bloody 
trench 

Where  no  one  knows  1 but  let  me  live 
my  life. 


“Oh!  who  would  cast  and  balance 
at  a desk, 

Perch’d  like  a crow  upon  a three- 
legg’d  stool, 

Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his 
joints 

Are  full  of  chalk  ? but  let  me  live  my 
life. 

“ Who’d  serve  the  state  ? for  if  I 
carved  my  name 

Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native 
land, 

I might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the 
sands ; 

The  sea  wastes  all : but  let  me  live  my 
life. 

“Oh!  who  would  love?  I woo’d  a 
woman  once, 

But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern 
wind, 

And  all  my  heart  turn’d  from  her,  as 
a thorn 

Turns  from  the  sea ; but  let  me  live 
my  life.” 

He  sang  his  song,  and  I replied  with 
mine : 

I found  it  in  a volume,  all  of  songs. 

Knock’d  down  to  me,  when  old  Sir 
Robert’s  pride, 

His  books  — the  more  the  pity,  so  I 
said  — 

Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March  — 
and  this  — 

I set  the  words,  and  added  names  I 
knew. 

“Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,  and 
dream  of  me : 

Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister’s  arm, 

And  sleeping,  haply  drearp  her  arm  is 
mine. 

“Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilias 
arm; 

Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 

For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 

« Sleep,  breathing  health  and  peace 
upon  her  breast : 

Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against 
her  lip : 

I go  to-night : I come  to-morrow  morn. 

“ I go,  but  I return : I would  I were 

The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the 

l ,:>ream. 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


89 


Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream 
of  me.” 

So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis 
Hale, 

The  farmer's  son,  who  lived  across  the 
bay, 

My  friend  ; and  I,  that  having  where- 
withal, 

And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life 

A rolling  stone  of  here  and  every- 
where, 

Did  what  I would ; but  ere  the  night 
we  rose 

And  saunter'd  home  beneath  a moon, 
that,  just 

In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the 
leaf 

Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach’d 

The  limit  of  the  hills ; and  as  we  sank 

From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming 
quay, 

The  town  was  hush'd  beneath  us: 
lower  down 

The  bay  was  oily  calm;  the  harbor 
buoy, 

Sole  star  of  phosphorescence  in  the 
calm, 

Wkh  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 

Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at 
heart. 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 

John.  I'm  glad  I walk'd.  How  fresh 
the  meadows  look 

Above  the  river,  and,  but  a month  ago, 

The  whole  hill-side  was  redder  than  a 
fox. 

Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway 
joins 

The  turnpike? 

James.  Yes. 

John.  And  when  does  this  come  by? 

James.  The  mail?  At  one  o'clock. 

John.  What  is  it  now  ? 

James.  A quarter  to. 

John.  Whose  house  is  that  I see  ? 

No,  not  the  County  Member's  with 
the  vane : 

Up  higher  with  the  yew-tree  by  it, 
and  half 


A score  of  gables. 

James.  That  ? Sir  Edward  Head's  : 

But  he's  abroad : the  place  is  to  be 
sold. 

John.  Oh,  his.  He  was  not  broken. 

James . No,  sir,  he, 

Vex'd  with  a morbid  devil  in  his 
blood 

That  veil’d  the  world  with  jaundice, 
hid  his  face 

From  all  men,  and  commercing  with 
himself. 

He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily 
life  — 

That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or 

less  — 

And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for 
change. 

John.  And  whither  ? 

James . Nay,  who  knows  ? he's  here 
and  there. 

But  let  him  go;  his  devil  goes  with 
him, 

As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky 

Dawes. 

John.  What's  that  ? 

James.  Y ou  saw  the  man  — on  Mon- 
day, was  it  ? — 

There  by  the  humpback'd  willow ; 
half  stands  up 

And  bristles ; half  has  fall'n  and 
made  a bridge ; 

And  there  he  caught  the  younker 
tickling  trout  — 

Caught  in  flagrante  — what's  the  Latin 
word  ? — 

Delicto:  but  his  house,  for  so  they 
say, 

Was  haunted  with  a jolly  ghost,  that 
shook 

The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt 
at  doors, 

And  rummaged  like  a rat : no  servant 
stay'd : 

The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds 
and  chairs, 

And  all  his  household  stuff;  and  with 
his  boy 

Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the 
tilt. 

Sets  out,  and  meets  a friend  who  hailfi 
him,  “ What ! 


90 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


You’re  flitting!”  “Yes,  we’re  flit- 
ting,” says  the  ghost 

(For  they  had  pack’d  the  thing  among 
the  beds,) 

“ Oh  well,”  says  he,  “ you  flitting  with 
us  too  — 

Jack,  turn  the  horses’  heads  and  home 
again.” 

John.  He  left  his  wife  behind ; for 
so  I heard. 

James.  He  left  her,  yes.  I met  my 
lady  once : 

A woman  like  a butt,  and  harsh  as 
crabs 

John.  Oh  yet  but  I remember,  ten 
years  back  — 

>Tis  now  at  least  ten  years  — and  then 
she  was  — 

You  could  not  light  upon  a sweeter 
thing : 

A body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a 
pear 

In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a hand,  a 
foot 

Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a 
skin 

As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it 
flowers. 

James.  Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades, 
and  they  that  loved 

At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat 
and  dog. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a cottager, 

Out  of  her  sphere.  What  betwixt 
shame  and  pride, 

New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her, 
she  sour’d 

To  what  she  is:  a nature  never 
kind ! 

Like  men,  like  manners:  like  breeds 
like,  they  say : 

Kind  nature  is  the  best:  those  man- 
ners next 

That  fit  us  like  a nature  second-hand  ; 

Which  are  indeed  the-manners  of  the 
great. 

John.  But  I had  heard  it  was  this 
bill  that  past, 

And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that 
drove  him  hence. 

James.  That  was  the  last  drop  in 
the  cup  of  gall. 


I once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff 
brought 

A Chartist  pike.  You  should  have 
seen  him  wince 

As  from  a venomous  thing  : he  thought 
himself 

A mark  for  all,  and  shudder’d,  lest  a 
cry 

Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and 
his  nice  eyes 

Should  see  the  raw  mechanic’s  bloody 
thumbs 

Sweat  on  his  blazon’d  chairs , but,  sir, 
you  know 

That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the 
world  — 

Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that 
have : and  still 

The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from 
age  to  age 

With  much  the  same  result.  Now  I 
myself, 

A Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a boy 

Destructive,  when  1 had  not  what  1 
would. 

I was  at  school  — a college  in  the 
South : 

There  lived  a flayflint  near ; we  stole 
his  fruit,. 

His  hens,  his  eggs ; but  there  was  law 
for  us ; 

We  paid  in  person.  He  had  a sow, 
sir.  She, 

With  meditative  grunts  of  much  con- 
tent, 

Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun 
and  mud. 

By  night  we  dragg’d  her  to  the  col- 
lege tower 

From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  cork- 
screw stair 

With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the 
groaning  sow, 

And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she 
pigg’d. 

Large  range  of  prospect  had  the 
mother  sow, 

And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved 

As  one  by  one  we  took  them  — but  for 
this  — 

As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this 
world  — 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR , THE  LAKE, 


91 


LMiglit  have  been  happy  : but  what  lot 
is  pure  ? 

We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left 
alone 

Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine. 

And  so  return'd  unfarrow’d  to  her 
sty. 

John.  They  found  you  out  ? 

James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well  — after  all  — 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a 
man  ? 

His  nerves  were  wrong.  What  ails 
us,  who  are  sound, 

That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool 
the  world, 

Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse 
blacks  or  whites, 

As  ruthless  as  a baby  with  a worm, 

As  cruel  as  a schoolboy  ere  he  grows 

To  Pity — more  from  ignorance  than 
will. 

But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or 
I fear 

That  we  shall  miss  the  mail : and  here 
it  comes 

With  five  at  top  : as  quaint  a four-in- 
hand 

As  you  shall  see  — three  pyebalds  and 
a roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS; 

OR,  THE  LAKE. 

0 me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake, 

My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters 
of  a year, 

My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 

Of  city  life  ! I was  a sketcher  then  : 

See  here,  my  doing : curves  of  moun- 
tain, bridge. 

Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a castle,  built 

When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a 
rock 

With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a rock  : 

And  here,  new-comers  in  an  ancient 
hold, 

New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  million- 
aires, 

Here  lived  the  Hills  — a Tudor-chim- 
nied  bulk 


Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of 
bowers. 

O me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the 
lake 

With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward 
Bull 

The  curate;  he  was  fatter  than  his 
cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 
names, 

Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss 
and  fern, 

Who  forged  a thousand  theories  of  the 
rocks, 

Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row, 
to  swim, 

Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good, 

His  own  — I call’d  him  Crichton,  for 
he  seem’d 

All-perfect,  finish’d  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I ask’d  him  of  his  early 
life, 

And  his  first  passion ; and  he  answer’d 
me ; 

And  well  his  words  became  him : was 
he  not 

A full-cell’d  honeycomb  of  eloquence 

Stored  from  all  flowers  ? Poet-like  he 
spoke. 

“ My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I ; 

But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to 
that, 

And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love 
for  her. 

My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for 
her. 

Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters 
grew, 

Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 

To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the 
sun, 

And  some  full  music  seem’d  to  move 
and  change 

With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the 
dark, 

And  either  twilight  and  the  day  b& 
tween ; 

For  daily  hope  fulfill’d,  to  rise  again 


92 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 


Revolving  toward  fulfilment,  made  it 
sweet 

To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  wake,  to 
breathe.” 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he 
spoke. 

Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate  Edward 
Bull, 

“ I take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for 
the  man, 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 
world. 

A pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 

To  have  a dame  indoors,  that  trims  us 
up, 

And  keeps  us  tight ; but  these  unreal 
ways 

Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and 
indeed 

Worn  threadbare.  Man  is  made  of 
solid  stuff. 

I say,  God  made  the  woman  for  tne 
man, 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 
world.” 

“ Parson,”  said  I,  “ you  pitch  the  pipe 
too  low : 

But  I have  sudden  touches,  and  can 
run 

My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his  : 

Tho’  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 

I do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 

I scarce  have  other  music  : yet  say  on. 

What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such 
a dream  ? ” 

I ask’d  him  half-sardonically. 

“ Give  ? 

Give  all  thou  art,”  he  answer’d,  and  a 
light 

Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy 
cheek ; 

“I  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my 
heart, 

To  save  her  little  finger  from  a scratch 

No  deeper  than  the  skin : my  ears 
could  hear 

Her  lightest  breath  ; her  least  remark 
was  worth 

The  experience  of  the  wise.  I went 
and  came; 


Her  voice  fled  always  thro’  the  summer 
land ; 

I spoke  her  name  alone.  Thrice-happy 
days ! 

The  flower  of  each,  those  moments 
when  we  met, 

The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no 
more.” 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I a 
beast 

To  take  them  as  I did  ? but  something 
jarr’d ; 

Whether  he  spoke  too  largely ; that 
there  seem’d 

A touch  of  something  false,  some  self- 
conceit, 

Or  over-smoothness : howsoe’er  it  was, 

He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I said : 

“Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  your- 
self alone 

Of  all  men  happy.  Shall  not  Love  to 
me, 

As  in  the  Latin  song  I learnt  at  school, 

Sneeze  out  a full  God-bless-you  right 
and  left  ? 

But  you  can  talk : yours  is  a kindly 
vein : 

I have,  I think,  — Heaven  knows  — as 
much  within ; 

Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a 
thought  or  two, 

That  like  a purple  beech  among  the 
greens 

Looks  out  of  place  : ’tis  from  no  want 
in  her : 

It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust, 

Or  something  of  a wayward  modern 
mind 

Dissecting  passion.  Time  will  set  me 
right.” 

So  spoke  I knowing  not  the  things 
that  were. 

Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 
Bull: 

“ God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of 
man, 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 
world.” 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  TIIE  LAKE. 


93 


And  I and  Edwin  laughed ; and  now 
we  paused 

About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to 
hear 

The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy 
holms 

And  alders,  garden-isles ; and  now  we 
left 

The  clerk  behind  us,  I and  he,  and  ran 

By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake. 

Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the 
sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on 
their  crags, 

My  suit  had  wither'd,  nipt  to  death  by 
him 

That  was  a God,  and  is  a lawyer’s  clerk, 

The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 

’Tis  true,  we  met ; one  hour  I had,  no 
more  : 

She  sent  a note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous 
suit, 

The  close,  “ Your  Letty,  only  yours  ” ; 
and  this 

Thrice  underscored.  The  friendly 
mist  of  morn 

Clung  to  the  lake.  I boated  over,  ran 

My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with 
beating  heart 

The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelv- 
ing keel ; 

And  out  I stept,  and  up  I crept : she 
moved, 

Like  Proserpine  in  Enna,  gathering 
flowers  : 

Then  low  and  sweet  I whistled  thrice; 
and  she, 

^he  turn  d,  we  closed,  we  kiss’d,  swore 
faith,  I breathed 

[n  some  new  planet : a silent  cousin 
stole 

Jpon  us  and  departed  : “ Leave,”  she 
cried, 

0 leave  me!”  “Never,  dearest, 
never : here 

brave  the  worst:”  and  while  we 
stood  like  fools 

Embracing,  all  at  once  a score  of  pugs 

md  poodles  yell’d  within,  and  out 
they  came 

Vustees  and  Aunts  and  Uncles. 


“ What,  with  him  ! 

Go  (shrill’d  the  cotton-spinning 
chorus)  ; “ him  ! ” 

I choked.  Again  they  shriek’d  the 
burthen  — “ Him ! ” 

Again  with  hands  of  wild  rejection 
“ Go ! — 

Girl,  get  you  in ! ” She  went  — and  in 
one  month 

They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand 
pounds, 

To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in 
York, 

And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery 
smile 

And  educated  whisker.  But  for  me. 

They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to 
work  : 

It  seems  I broke  a close  with  force 
and  arms : 

There  came  a mystic  token  from  the 
king 

To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy ! 

I read,  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying 
turn’d  : 

Her  taper  glimmer’d  in  the  lake  be- 
low : 

I turn’d  once  more,  close-button’d  to 
the  storm  ; 

So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have 
seen 

Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared 
to  hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear?  perhaps:  yet 
long  ago 

I have  pardon’d  little  Letty ; not  in- 
deed, 

It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but 
this, 

She  seems  a part  of  those  fresh  days 
to  me; 

For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  Lon- 
don life 

She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the 
lake, 

While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his 
wing,  or  then 

While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  over- 
head 

The  light  cloud  smoulders  cu  the 
summer  crag. 


94 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 

Altho’  I be  the  basest  of  mankind, 

From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and 
crust  of  sin, 

Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven, 
scarce  meet 

For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blas- 
phemy, 

I will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  l 
hold 

Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn 
and  sob, 

Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with 
storms  of  prayer, 

Have  mercy,  Lord,  and  take  away  my 
sin. 

Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty 
God, 

This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten 
years, 

Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman 
pangs,  . - •, 

In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and 
cold, 

In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous 
throes  and  cramps, 

A sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the 
cloud, 

Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I have  borne 

Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp, 
and  sleet,  and  snow ; 

And  I had  hoped  that  ere  this  period 
closed 

Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into 
thy  rest, 

Denying  not  these  weather-beaten 
limbs 

The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe 
and  the  palm. 

0 take  the  meaning,  Lord : I do  not 
breathe, 

Not  whisper,  any  murmur  of  com- 
plaint. 

Pain  heap'd  ten-hundred-fold  to  this, 
were  still 

Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to 
bear,  . 

Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  ot  sin, 
that  crush’d 

My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O Lord,  Lord, 


Thou  knowest  I bore  this  better  at 
the  first, 

For  I was  strong  and  hale  of  body 
then ; 

And  th o’  my  teeth,  which  now  are 
dropt  away, 

Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all 
my  beard 

Was  tagg’d  with  icy  fringes  in  the 
moon, 

I drown’d  the  whoopings  of  the  owl 
with  sound 

Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and 
sometimes  saw 

An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I 
sang. 

Now  am  I feeble  grown;  my  end 
draws  nigh ; 

I hope  my  end  draws  nigh : half  deaf 
I am, 

So  that  I scarce  can  hear  the  people 
hum 

Aboilt  the  column’s  base,  and  almost 
blind, 

And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I 
know ; 

And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with 
the  dew, 

Yet  cease  I not  to  clamor  and  to 
cry, 

While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my 
weary  head, 

Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from 
the  stone, 

Have  mercy,  mercy : take  away  my 
sin. 

O Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my 
soul, 

Who  may  be  saved  ? who  is  it  may  be 
saved  ? 

Who  may  be  made  a saint,  if  I fail 

here  ? 

Show  me  the  man  hath  suffer  d more 
than  I. 

For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  om 
death  *? 

For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  cruci 
fled, 

Or  burn’d  in  fire,  or  boil’d  in  oil,  o 
sawn 

In  twain  beneath  the  ribs ; but  I dn 
here 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


95 


To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a life 
of  death 

Bear  witness,  if  I could  have  found  a 
way 

(And  heedfully  I sifted  all  my 
thought) 

More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this 
home 

Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I despise  and 
hate, 

I had  not  stinted  practice,  O my  God. 
For  not  alone  this  pillar-punish- 
ment, 

Not  this  alone  I bore:  but  while  I 
lived 

In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley 
there, 

For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I wore 

The  robe  that  haled  the  buckets  from 
the  well, 

Twisted  as  tight  as  I could  knot  the 
noose ; 

And  spake  not  of  it  to  a single  soul, 

Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 

Betray’d  my  secret  penance,  so  that 
„ all 

My  brethren  marvell’d  greatly.  More 
than  this 

I bore,  whereof,  O God,  thou  knowest 
all. 

Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might 
grow  to  thee, 

I lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain 
side. 

My  right  leg  chain’d  into  the  crag,  I 
lay 

Fent  in  a roofless  close  of  ragged  * 
stones ; 

Inswathed  sometimes  in  wandering 
mist,  and  twice 

Black  d with  thy  branding  thunder, 
and  sometimes 

r sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and 
eating  not, 

Except  the  spare  'chance-gift  of  those 
that  :ame 

To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal’d,  and 
live  : 

Ind  they  say  then  that  I work’d  mir- 
acles, 

thereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst 
mankind. 


Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers. 
Thou,  O God, 

Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy ! cover  all  my  sin. 
Then,  that  I might  be  more  alone 
with  thee, 

Three  years  I lived  upon  a pillar 

c.  h.igh 

bix  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of 
twelve  ; 

And  twice  three  years  I crouch’d  on 
one  that  rose 

Twenty  by  measure;  last  of  all,  1 
grew 

Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to 
this, 

That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the 
soil. 

I think  that  I have  borne  as  much 
as  this  — 

Or  else  I dream  — and  for  so  long  a 
time, 

If  I may  measure  time  by  yon  slow 
light, 

And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow 
crowns  — 

So  much  — even  so. 

And  yet  I know  not  well, 

For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and 
say, 

“Fall  down,  O Simeon:  that  hast 
suffer’d  long 

F or  ages  and  for  ages ! ” then  they 
prate 

Of  penances  I cannot  have  gone  thro’, 

Perplexing  me  with  lies;  and  oft  I 
fall, 

Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind 
lethargies 

That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time 
are  choked. 

But  yet 

Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and 
all  the  saints 

Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men 
on  earth 

House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable 
roofs, 

Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  whole- 
some food, 

And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even 
beasts  have  stalls. 


96 


s T.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


I,  ’tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of 
the  light, 

Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hun- 
dred times, 

To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the 
saints ; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a little  sleep, 

I wake  : the  chill  stars  sparkle  ; I am 


With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with 
crackling  frost. 

I wear  an  undress’d  goatskin  on  my 


back ; 

A grazing  iron  collar  * grinds  my 
neck ; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I lift  the 
cross, 

And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till 


I die : 

O mercy,  mercy!  wash  awry  my  sin. 
O Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a man 


I am  ; 

A sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in 


sin : 

Tis  their  own  doing;  this  is  none  of 


mine ; 

Lay  it  not  to  me.  Am  I to  blame  for 
this, 

That  here  come  those  that  worship 
me?  Ha!  ha! 

They  think  that  I am  somewhat. 
What  am  I ? 

The  silly  people  take  me  for  a saint, 

And  bring  me  offerings  of  fruit  and 
flowers : 

And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness 
here) 

Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and 
more 

Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose 


names 

Are  register’d  and  calendar  d for 
saints. 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to 


me. 

What  is  it  I can  have  done  to  merit 
this  ? 

I am  a sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  I have  wrought  some  mira- 
cles, 

Ai*7  cured  some  halt  and  maim  d;  but 
what  of  that  ? 


It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the 
. saints, 

May  match  his  pains  with  mine  ; but 
what  of  that  ? 

Yet  do  not  rise , for  you  may  look  on 
me, 

And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel 
to  God. 

Speak ! is  there  any  of  you  halt  or 
maim’d  ? 

I think  you  know  I have  some  power 
with  Heaven 

From  my  long  penance  : let  him  speak 
his  wish. 

Yes,  I can  heal  him.  Power  goes 
forth  from  me. 

They  say  that  they  are  heal’d.  Ah, 
hark ! they  shout 

« St.  Simeon  Stylites.”  Why,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a harvest  in  me.  O my  soul, 
God  reaps  a harvest  in  thee.  If  this  be, 
Can  I work  miracles  and  not  be  saved  ? 
This  is  not  told  of  any.  They  were 
saints. 

It  cannot  be  but  that  I shall  be  saved  ; 
Yea,  crown’d  a saint.  They  shout, 
“ Behold  a saint ! ” 

And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon ! This  dull  chrys- 
alis 

Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope 
ere  death 

Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that 
God  hath  now 

Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimeful 
record  all 

My  mortal  archives. 

O my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men  ; I,  Simeon, 

The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end ; 
I,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine 
bakes ; 

I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours 
become 

Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  liigh  nest  of  penance  hen 
proclaim 

That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Show’d  like  fair  seraphs.  On  the  coah 
I lay, 

A vessel  full  of  sin  • all  hell  beneath 


TIIE  TALKING  OAK. 


97 


Made  me  boil  over.  Devils  pluck’d 
my  sleeve, 

Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 

I smote  them  with  the  cross;  they 
swarm’d  again. 

In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they 
crush’d  my  chest : 

They  flapp’d  my  light  out  as  I read  : I 
saw 

Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my 
book ; 

With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hog- 
gish whine 

They  burst  my  prayer.  Yet  this  way 
was  left, 

And  by  this  way  I ’scaped  them. 
Mortify 

Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges 
and  with  thorns ; 

Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.  If  it 
may  be,  fast 

Whole  Lents,  and  pray.  I hardly, 
with  slow  steps,  | 

With  slow,  faint  steps,  and  much 
exceeding  pain. 

Have  scrambled  past  thv>se  pits  of  fire, 
that  still 

Sing  in  mine  ears.  But  yield  not  me 
the  praise : 

God  only  through  his  bounty  hath 
thought  fit, 

Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this 
world, 

To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 

Which  few  can  reach  to.  Yet  I do 
not  say 

But  that  a time  may  come  — yea,  even 
now, 

Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the 
threshold  stairs 

Of  life  — I say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 

When  you  may  worship  me  without 
reproach ; 

For  I will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land, 

And  you  may  carve  a shrine  about 
my  dust. 

And  burn  a fragrant  lamp  before  my 
bones, 

' When  I am  gather’d  to  the  glorious 
saints. 

L While  I spake  then,  a sting  of 
shrewdest  pain 

L: 


Ran  shrivelling  thro’  me,  and  a cloud- 
like change, 

In  passing,  with  a grosser  film  made 
thick 

These  heavy,  horny  eyes.  The  end  ! 
the  end ! 

Surely  the  end!  W uat’s  here?  a 
shape,  a shade, 

A flash  of  light.  Is  that  the  angel 
there 

That  holds  a crown  ? Come,  blessed 
brother,  come. 

I know  thy  glittering  face.  I waited 
long ; 

My  brows  are  ready.  What ! deny  it 
now  ? 

Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.  So  I 
clutch  it.  Christ ! 

’Tis  gone:  ’tis  here  again;  the  crown! 
the  crown  ! 

So  now  ’tis  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me, 

And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 

Sweet!  sweet!  spikenard,  and  balm, 
and  frankincense. 

Ah ! let  me  not  be  fool’d,  sweet  saints; 

I trust 

That  I am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet 
for  Heaven. 

Speak,  if  there  be  a priest,  a man 
of  God, 

Among  you  there,  and  let  him  pres- 
ently 

Approach,  and  lean  a ladder  on  the 
shaft, 

And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home, 

1 Deliver  me.  the  blessed  sacrament ; 

For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

I prophesy  that  I shall  die  to-night, 

A quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  O Lord, 

Aid  all  this  foolish  people ; let  them 
take 

Example,  pattern:  lead  them  to  thy 
light. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I see  the  moulder’d  Abbey-walls, 

1 That  stand  within  the  chace. 


98 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 

Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke ; 

And  ah ! with  what  delighted  eyes 
I turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began, 

Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn’d, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a man, 
Could  hope  itself  return'd ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 
I spoke  without  restraint, 

And  with  a larger  faith  appeal'd 
Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I talk'd  with  him  apart, 

And  told  him  of  my  choice, 

Until  he  plagiarized  a heart. 

And  answer’d  with  a voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper’d  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand; 

I found  him  garrulously  given, 

A babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I heard  him  make  reply 
Is  many  a weary  hour ; 

'Twere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 
If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I carved  her  name, 
If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 

As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs.— 

O Walter,  I have  shelter'd  here 
Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year 
Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

"Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat, 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek, 
Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

14  Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter's-pence, 
And  number’d  bead,  and  shrift, 


Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence 
And  turn’d  the  cowls  adrift : 

“ And  I have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces,  that  would  thrive 
When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five ; 

“And  all  that  from  the  town  would 
stroll, 

Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 
In  which  the  gloomy  brewer’s  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a stork  : 

“ The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood, 
And  others,  passing  praise, 
Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 
For  puritanic  stays : 

“ And  I have  shadow'd  many  a group 
Of  beauties,  that  were  born 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn ; 

“And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 
About  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd 
The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day, 

And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 

“ I swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 
Each  leaf  into  a gall) 

This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 
Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

“For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature’s  law, 
Have  faded  long  ago ; 

But  in  these  latter  springs  I saw 
Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

“ From  when  she  gamboll'd  T>n  the 
greens 

A baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 
Could  number  five  from  ten. 

“ I swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 
That,  tho’  I circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

“ Yet,  since  I first  could  cast  a shade. 
Hid  never  creature  pass 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


99 


So  slightly,  musically  made, 

So  light  upon  the  grass  : 

u For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I hold  them  exquisitely  knit, 

But  far  too  spare  of  flesh.” 

Oh,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 
And  overlook  the  chace ; 

And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I carved  her  name, 
That  oft  has  heard  my  vows, 

Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

u O yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 
Was  holden  at  the  town  ; 

Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair. 
And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

“ And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his. 

I look’d  at  him  with  joy  . 

As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is, 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy, 

“ An  hour  had  past  — and,  sitting 
straight 

Within  the  low-wheel’d  chaise, 

Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

“ But  as  for  her,  she  stay’d  at  home, 
And  on  the  roof  she  went, 

And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come, 
She  look’d  with  discontent. 

u She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 
Upon  the  rosewood  shelf ; 

She  left  the  new  piano  shut : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

‘ Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 
And  livelier  than  a lark 

She  sent  her  voice  thro’  all  the  holt 
Before  her,  and  the  park. 

u A light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 
And  in  the  chase  grew  wild, 

As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 
About  the  darling  child; 


“ But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 
So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 

The  flower,  she  touch’d  on,  dipt  and 
rose, 

And  turn’d  to  look  at  her. 

“ And  here  she  came,  and  round  me 
play’d, 

And  sang  to  me  the  wdiole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 
About  my  ‘ giant  bole ; ’ 

“ And  in  a fit  of  frolic  mirth 
She  strove  to  span  my  waist : 

Alas,  I was  so  broad  of  girth, 

I could  not  be  embraced. 

“I  wish’d  myself  the  fair  young  beech 
That  here  beside  me  stands, 

That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 
She  might  have  lock’d  her  hands. 

“Yet  seem’d  the  pressure  thrice  as 
sweet 

As  woodbine’s  fragile  hold, 

Or  when  I feel  about  my  feet 
The  berried  briony  fold.” 

0 muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 
And  shadow  Sumner-chace  ! 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 
I carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I came 
To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  1 

“O  yes,  she  wander’d  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 

And  found,  and  kiss’d  the  name  she 
found, 

And  sweetly  murmur’d  thine 

“ A teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 
And  down  my  surface  crept. 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 
But  I believe  she  wept. 

“ Then  flush’d  her  cheek  with  rosy 
light, 

She  glanced  across  the  plain; 


100 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


But  not  a creature  was  in  sight : 

She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

“ Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind, 
That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 

Hard  wood  I am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 
But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr’d : 

“ And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 
A pleasure  I discern’d, 

Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 
That  show  the  year  is  turn’d. 

“ Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet’s  waving  balm  — 

The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may 
press 

The  maiden’s  tender  palm. 

“ I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 
With  anthers  and  with  dust : 

“For  ah!  my  friend,  the  days  were 
brief 

Whereof  the  poets  talk, 

\*  nen  that,  which  breathes  within  the 
leaf. 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

“ But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem. 
Have  suck’d  and  gather’d  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

“ She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss ; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro’, 

I would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss, 
With  usury  thereto.” 

0 flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 
And  overlook  the  lea, 

Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers 
But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

O flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern, 

Old  oak,  I love  thee  well ; 

A.  thousand  thanks  for  what  I learn 
And  what  remains  to  tell. 


“’Tis  little  more  : the  day  was  warm  , 
At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 

She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm 
And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

“ Her  eyelids  dropp’d  their  silken 
eaves. 

I breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro’  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 
A welcome  mix’d  with  sighs. 

“ I took  the  swarming  sound  of  life  — 
The  music  from  the  town  — 

The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife 
And  lull’d  them  in  my  own. 

“ Sometimes  I let  a sunbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  shaded  eye ; 

A second  flutter’d  round  her  lip 
Like  a golden  butterfly ; 

“A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine; 
Another  slid,  a sunny  fleck, 

From  head  to  ankle  fine, 

“Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I 
spread, 

And  shadow’d  all  her  rest  — 

Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

“ But  in  a pet  she  started  up, 

And  pluck’d  it  out,  and  drew 
My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 

And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

“ And  yet  it  was  a graceful  gift  — 

I felt  a pang  within 
As  when  I see  the  woodman  lift 
His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

“ I shook  him  down  because  he  was 
The  finest  on  the  tree. 

He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 

O kiss  him  once  for  me. 

“O  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 
That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 

For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 
Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this.” 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


101 


Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  tliro’  the  chace, 
Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest, 
That  but  a moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 
Some  happy  future  day. 

I kiss  it  twice,  I kiss  it  thrice, 

The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 
To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset, 

Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint, 

That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 
From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O rock  upon  thy  towery-top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 

And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 
The  full  south-breeze  around  thee 
blow 

The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 
That  under  deeply  strikes  ! 

The  northern  morning  o’er  thee  shoot, 
High  up,  in  silver  spikes ! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 

Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 
That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a solemn  oath, 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 


And  when  my  marriage  morn  may 
fall, 

She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 
Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 
Than  bard  has  honor’d  beech  or  lime. 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth, 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdove  sat. 

And  mystic  sentence  spoke ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  humm’d  a surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly 
close, 

What  sequel  ? Streaming  eyes  and 
breaking  hearts  * 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 

Not  so.  Shall  Error  in  the  round 
of  time 

Still  father  Truth  ? O shall  the  brag- 
gart shout 

For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom 
work  itself 

Thro’  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to 
law 

System  and  empire  ? Sin  itself  be 
found 

The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the 
Sun? 

And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  be- 
come 

Mere  highway  dust  ? or  year  by  year 
alone 

Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a life, 

Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of 
himself  ? 

If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed, 
were  all, 

Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony 
heart, 


102 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


The  staring  eye  glazed  o’er  with  sap- 
less days, 

The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 

The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 

But  am  I not  the  nobler  thro’  thy 
love  ? 

O three  times  less  unworthy ! likewise 
thou 

Art  more  thro’  Love,  and  greater  than 
thy  years 

The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the 
Moon 

Her  circle.  Wait,  and  Love  himself 
will  bring 

The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge 
changed  to  fruit 

Of  wisdom.  Wait:  my  faith  is  large 
in  Time, 

And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  per- 
fect end. 

Will  some  one  say,  Then  why  not  ill 
for  good  'i 

Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime  ? To 
that  man 

My  work  shall  answer,  since  I knew 
the  right 

And  did  it;  for  a man  is  not  as  God, 

But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a 
man. 

— So  let  me  think  ’tis  well  for  thee 
and  me  — 

Ill-fated  that  I am,  what  lot  is  mine 

Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my 
heart  so  slow 

To  feel  it ! For  how  hard  it  seem’d  to 
me, 

When  eyes,  love-languid  thro’  half 
tears  would  dwell 

One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon 
mine, 

Then  not  to  dare  to  see  ! when  thy  low 
voice, 

Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to 
keep 

My  own  full-tuned,  — hold  passion  in 
a leash, 

And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy 
neck, 

And  on  thy  bosom  (deep  desired 
relief !) 

Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that 
weigh’d 


Upon  my  brain,  my  senses  and  my  sou* ! 

For  Love  himself  took  part  against 
himself 

To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of 
Love  — 

O this  world’s  curse,  — beloved  but 
hated  — came 

Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace 
and  mine, 

And  crying,  “ Who  is  this  ? behold 
thy  bride,” 

She  push’d  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 

To  alien  ears,  I did  not  speak  to  these  — 

No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  thyself  in  me  : 

Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine:  thou 
knowest  it  all. 

Could  Love  part  thus  ? was  it  not 
well  to  speak, 

To  have  spoken  once  1 It  could  not 
but  be  well. 

The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all 
things  good, 

The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all 
things  ill, 

And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought 
the  night 

In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 

And  to  the  want,  that  hollow’d  ail  the 
heart, 

Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an 
eye, 

That  burn’d  upon  its  object  thro  such 
tears 

As  flow  but  once  a life. 

The  trance  gave  way 

To  those  caresses,  when  a hundred 
times 

In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the 
last. 

Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived 
and  died. 

Then  follow’d  counsel,  comfort,  and 
the  words 

That  make  a man  feel  strong  in  speak- 
ing truth ; 

Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  over- 
head 

The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise 
mix’d 

In  that  brief  night;  the  summer  night, 
that  paused 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR . 


103 


Among  her  stars  to  hear  us ; stars 
that  hung 

Love-charm’d  to  listen  : all  the  wheels 
of  Time 

Spun  round  in  station,  hut  the  end 
had  come. 

0 then  like  those,  who  clench  their 
nerves  to  rush 

Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 

There  — closing  like  an  individual 
life  — 

In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of 
pain, 

Like  bitter  accusation  ev’n  to  death, 

Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and 
utter’d  it, 

And  bade  adieu  for  ever. 

Live  — yet  live  — 

Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  know- 
ing all 

Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to 
will  — 

Live  happy;  tend  thy  flowers;  be 
tended  by 

My  blessing ! Should  my  Shadow 
cross  thy  thoughts 

Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it 
thou 

For  calmer  hours  to  Memory’s  dark- 
est hold, 

If  not  to  be  forgotten  — not  at 
once  — 

Not  all  forgotten.  Should  it  cross 
thy  dreams, 

O might  it  come  like  one  that  looks 
content, 

With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the 
truth, 

And  point  thee  forward  to  a distant 
light, 

Or  seem  to  lift  a burthen  from  thy 
heart 

And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake 
refresh’d 

Then  when  the  first  low  matin-chirp 
hath  grown 

Full  quire,  and  morning  driv’n  her 
plow  of  pearl 

Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded 
rack, 

Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  east- 
ern sea. 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which 
Leonard  wrote : 

It  was  last  summer  on  a tour  in  Wales  : 

Old  James  was  with  me  : we  that  day 
had  been 

Up  Snowdon  ; and  I wish’d  for  Leon- 
ard there, 

And  found  him  in  Llanberis : then  we 
crost 

Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber’d  half 
way  up 

The  counter  side  ; and  that  same  song 
of  his 

He  told  me ; for  I banter’d  him,  and 
swore 

They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within 
himself, 

A tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous 
days, 

That,  setting  the  how  much  before  the 
how , 

Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse- 
leech, “ Give, 

Cram  us  with  all,”  but  count  not  me 
the  herd ! 

To  ivhich  “ They  call  me  what  they 
will,”  he  said : 

“ But  I was  born  too  late  : the  fair  new 
forms, 

That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an 
age, 

Like  truths  of  Science  waiting  to  be 
caught  — 

Catch  me  who  can,  and  make  the 
catcher  crown’d  — 

Are  taken  by  the  forelock.  Let  it  be. 

But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen, 
hear 

These  measured  words,  my  work  of 
yestermorn. 

“ We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but 
all  things  move ; 

The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother 
Sun ; 

The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel’d  in  her 
ellipse ; 

And  human  things  returning  on  them- 
selves 

Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden 

year. 


104 


UL  YSSES. 


“ Ah,  tho’  the  times,  when  some  new 
thought  can  bud, 

Are  but  as  poets’  seasons  when  they 
flower, 

Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the 
shore, 

Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their 
march, 

And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the 
golden  year. 

“ When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest 
in  mounded  heaps. 

But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly 
melt 

In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 

And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be 
liker  man 

Thro’  all  the  season  of  the  golden 
year. 

“ Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ? wrens 
be  wrens  1 

If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of 
that  ? 

The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less, 

But  he  not  less  the  eagle.  Happy  days 

Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden 
year. 

“ Fly,  happy  happy  sails,  and  bear 
the  Press ; 

Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the 
Cross ; 

Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  haven- 
ward 

With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear 
of  toll, 

Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

“ But  we  grow  old.  Ah ! when  shall 
all  men’s  good 

Be  each  man’s  rule,  and  universal 
Peace 

Lie  like  a shaft  of  light  across  the  land, 

And  like  a lane  of  beams  athwart  the 
sea, 

Thro’  all  the  circle  of  the  golden 
year  1 ” 

Thus  far  he  flow’d,  and  ended ; 
whereupon 

“ Ah,  folly  ! ” in  mimic  cadence  an- 
swer’d James  — 

“ Ah,  folly ! for  it  lies  so  far  away. 

Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children’s 
time, 


’Tis  like  the  second  world  to  us  that 
live ; 

’Twere  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on 
Heaven 

As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year.” 

With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against 
die  rocks 

And  broke  it,  — James,- — you  know 
him,  — old,  but  full 

Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his 
feet, 

And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter 
woods, 

O’erflourish’dwith  the  hoary  clematis: 

Then  added,  all  in  heat : 

“ What  stuff  is  this ! 

Old  writers  push’d  the  happy  season 
back, — 

The  more  fools  they,  — we  forward: 
dreamers  both : 

You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every 
hour 

Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the 
death, 

Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seeds- 
man, rapt 

Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not 
plunge 

His  hand  into  the  bag:  but  well  I 
know 

That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels 
he  works, 

This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  the 
doors.” 

He  spoke  ; and,  high  above,  I heard 
them  blast 

The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great 
echo  flap 

And  buffet  round  the  hills,  from  bluff 
to  bluff. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  bar- 
ren crags, 

Match’d  with  an  aged  wife,  I mete  and 
dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and 
know  not  me. 


UL  YSSES. 


105 


[ cannot  rest  from  travel : I will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees  : all  times  I have  en- 
joy'd 

Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both 
with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone ; on  shore, 
and  when 

Thro’  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Yext  the  dim  sea:  I am  become  a name; 
For  always  roaming  with  a hungry 
heart 

Much  have  I seen  and  known ; cities 
of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  gov- 
ernments. 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them 
all; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my 
peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy 
Troy. 

I am  a part  of  all  that  I have  met  ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where- 
thro' 

Gleams  that  untravell’d  world,  whose 
margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in 
use! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.  Life 
piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  : but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something 
more, 

A bringer  of  new  things ; and  vile  it 
were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 
myself, 

Amd  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a sinking 
star, 

3eyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human 
thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telema- 
chus, 

whom  I leave  the  sceptre  and  the 
isle  — 

V ell-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
'his  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make 
i mild 


A rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 

Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the 
good. 

Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the 
sphere 

Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 

Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 

When  I am  gone.  He  works  his  work, 
I mine. 

There  lies  the  port ; the  vessel  puffs 
her  sail : 

There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.  My 
mariners, 

Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought, 
and  thought  with  me  — 

That  ever  with  a frolic  welcome  took 

The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and 
opposed 

Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  — you  and 
I are  old ; 

Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ; 

Death  closes  all : but  something  ere 
the  end, 

Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be 
done, 

Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with 
. Gods. 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the 
rocks : 

The  long  day  wanes : the  slow  moon 
climbs : the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices. 
Come,  my  friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order 
smite 

The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  pur- 
pose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the 
baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us 
down  : 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy 
Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we 
knew. 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides  ; and 
tho' 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which 
in  old  days 


tithonus. 


106 


Moved  earth  and  heaven  ; that  which 
we  are,  we  are  ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but 
strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to 
yield. 

TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay 
and  fall, 

The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the 
ground, 

Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies 
beneath, 

And  after  many  a summer  dies  the 
swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes  : I wither  slowly  in  thine 
arms, 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 

A white-hair’d  shadow  roaming  like  a 
dream  • 

The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls 
of  morn. 

Alas ! for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a 
man  — 

So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy 
choice, 

Who  madest  him.thy  chosen,  that  he 
seem’d 

To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a 
God!  v „ 

I ask’d  thee,  “ Give  me  immortality. 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking 
with  a smile, 

Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how 
they  give. 

But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant 
work’d  their  wills,  ? 

And  beat  me  down  and  marr’d  and 
wasted  me, 

And  tho’  they  could  not  end  me,  lett 
me  maim’d 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal 
youth, 

Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all  I was,  in  ashes.  Can  thy 
love, 


Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho’  even 
now, 

Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy 
guide, 

Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that 
fill  with  tears 

To  hear  me  ? Let  me  go  : take  back 
thy  gift : 

Why  should  a man  desire  m any  way 

To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 

Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 

Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most 
meet  for  all  ? 

A soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart: 
there  comes 

A glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where 
I was  born. 

Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glim- 
mer steals 

From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy 
shoulders  pure, 

And  bosom  beating  with  a heart  re- 
new’d. 

Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro’  the 
gloom, 

Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close 
to  mine, 

Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the 
wild  team 

Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy 
yoke,  arise, 

And  shake  the  darkness  from  their 
loosen’d  manes, 

And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of 
fire. 

Lo  ! ever  thus  thou  growest  beauti- 
ful 

In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer 
given 

Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my 
cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with 
thy  tears, 

And  make  me  tremble  lest  a saying 
learnt, 

In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be 
true  ? 

The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall 
their  gifts  ,f 


LOCKSLEY  HALE 


107 


Ay  me ! ay  me ! with  what  another 
heart 

in  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other 
eyes 

l used  to  watch— if  I be  he  that 
watch’d  — 

The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee ; 
saw 

The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings; 

Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and 
felt  my  blood 

Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crim- 
son’d all 

Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I 
lay, 

Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing 
dewy-warm 

With  kisses  balmier  than  half-open- 
ing buds 

Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that 
kiss’d 

Whispering  I knew  not  what  of  wild 
and  sweet, 

Like  that  strange  song  I heard  Apollo 
sing, 

While  Ilion  like  a mist  rose  into 
towers. 


Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine 
East : 

How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with 
thine  ? 

Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me, 
cold 

Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my 
wrinkled  feet 

Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds, 
when  the  steam 

Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about 
the  homes 

Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power 
to  die, 

And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier 
dead. 

Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the 
ground ; 

Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 
grave : 

1 hou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  bv 
mom ; 

I earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty 
courts. 

And  thee  returning  on  thy  silvei 
wheels. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

Comrades  Jeave  me  here  a little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn  : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle-horn 

”Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall; 

Anr^fJf^n11’  that  'n  th,e  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

TtirTi  f nilght  fr°m  y?I!der  ivied  casement,  ere  I went  to  rest, 
lAd  1 look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West- 

a Aught  I saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro’  the  mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a silver  braid. 

with  theWv  tbfCV  wander’d>  nourishing  a youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a fruitful  land  reposed ; 

W len  I clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed, 


108 


LOCKS  LEY  HALL . 


When  I dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see , 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be.  — 

In  the  Spring  a fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin’s  breast ; 

In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 

In  the  Spring  a livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish’d  dove ; 

In  the  Spring  a young  man’s  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young. 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a mute  observance  hung. 

And  I said,  “My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me. 

Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee.” 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a color  and  a light, 

As  I have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn’d  — her  bosom  shaken  with  a sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  “I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong”; 
Saying,  “ Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ? ” weeping,  “ I have  loved  thee  long. 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn’d  it  in  his  glowing  hands ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self  that,  trembling,  pass’d  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 

And  her  whisper  throng’d  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rush’d  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O my  cousin,  shallow-hearted  ! O my  Amy,  mine  no  more ! 

O the  dreary,  dieary  moorland  ! O the  barren,  barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 

Puppet  to  a lather’s  threat,  and  servile  to  a shrewish  tongue ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ? — having  known  me  — to  decline 
On  a range  of  lower  feelings  and  a narrower  heart  than  mine ! 

Yet  it  shall  be : thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  : thou  art  mated  with  a clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 


109 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this  ? his  eyes  are  heavy : think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine 
Go  to  him . it  is  thy  duty  : kiss  him  : take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought: 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

Better  thn,SWertt0ihe,P,U1?0Se’  eas^  thi“gs  to  understand  - 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho’  I slew  thee  with  my  hand ! 

Better  thou  and  I were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart’s  disgrace 
Boll  d in  one  another’s  arms,  and  silent  in  a last  embrace  ’ 

Cursed  he  hI!  7ant?that  si"  against  the  strength  of  youth  1 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature’s  rule' 
ursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten’d  forehead  of  the  fool! 

Well~’rteT-  tha‘  1 Sh°Uld  Cluster ! — Hadst  thou  less  unworthy 
Would  to  God— for  I had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

wn  "?ad{  t}!a/  1 shouId  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit  * 

I will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho’  my  heart  be  at  the  root  ' 

Never,  tho’  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter  d crow  that  leads  the  cfangLg^ooLery  home 

SnTnart  rf0frt  ? d™n  of  the  records  of  the  mind  ? 

Can  I part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I knew  her,  kind  ? 

I remember  one  that  perish’d  : sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move  • 

Such  a one  do  I remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love  ‘ 

Can  I think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore’ 

No -she  never  loved  me  truly : love  is  love  for  evermore  ' 

Wwt  hunts  in  dreads,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall 

ere  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleen 
To  thy  widow’d  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou will  weep. 


no 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Thou  shalt  hear  the  “ Never,  never/’  whisper’d  by  the  phantom  years, 
And  a song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow : get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace  ; for  a tender  voice  will  cry. 

’Tis  a purer  life  than  thine ; a lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down : my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother’s  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a dearness  not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  : it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 

With  a little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a daughter’s  heart. 


“They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings  — she  herself  was  not 
exempt  — , , , 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer’d  ” — Perish  in  thy  self-contempt ! 

Overlive  it  — lower  yet  — be  happy ! wherefore  should  I care  ? 

I myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I wither  by  despair. 


What  is  that  which  I should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr’d  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng’d  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 

I have  but  an  angry  fancy  : what  is  that  which  I should  do  . 


I had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman’s  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll’d  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 


But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels. 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other  s heels. 

Can  I but  relive  in  sadness  ? I will  turn  that  earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  thy  deep  emotion,  O thou  wondrous  Mother-Age! 


Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I felt  before  the  strife 
When  I heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  lile ; 


Yearning  for  the  large  excitement 
Eager-hearted  as  a boy  when  first 


that  the  coming  years  would 
he  leaves  his  father’s  field, 


yield, 


And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a dreary  dawn ; 


And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men: 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Ill 


pothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  somethin?  new  * 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do: 

sTw  f h lpv* ”t0  thfe  f,uture’  far  as  huraan  eye  could  see 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  ’would  be; 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twil^  . 

wTtlfZgsttand7rld7filLWhiSP1r  °f  ,the  south-wi„d  rushing  warm, 
standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro’  the  thunder-storm; 

S11tbtepITdrUln+  th/obb’d  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl’d 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world 

An?ir*Vth?  .co“mon  aense  °f  most  shall  hold  a fretful  realm  in  awe 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law  * 

So  I triumph’d  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro’  me  left  me  drv 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  leff  me  with  the  jamidSd  eye; 

Eye.  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  ioint  • 

Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point: 

Slowly  comes  a hungry  people,  as  a lion  creeping  nigher 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a slowfy-dying’fire. 

1^“  not  thro’  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs 
nd  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen’d  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 


112 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match’d  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  uhto  wine 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.  Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr’d ; — 

I was  left  a trampled  orphan,  and  a selfish  uncle  s ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  — there  to  wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 


Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies. 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 


Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o’er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag, 


Droops  the  heavy-blossom’d  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 


There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 


There  the  passions  cramp’d  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing 
I will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 


Iron  jointed,  supple-sinew’d,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun , 


Whistle  back  the  parrot’s  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks. 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books 


Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy!  but  I know  “®jfdild* 

But  I count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 


I to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a bealt  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a beast  with  lower  pain.! 


Mated  with  a squalid  savage -wliat  to  me  were  sun  or  clime? 
I the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time  — 


T that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshuas  moon  in  Aja  on. 


Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward,  forward  let  us  range 
Let  Jhe  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 


Thro’  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day  s 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a cycle  of  Cathay. 


GODIVA. 


113 


KhP^fn  (f°r  ;ni’n  Lknew  not)  helP  me  as  when  life  begun  ■ 

1 'ft  the  hllls>  and  ro11  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun. 

O,  I see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 

Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro’  all  my  fancy  yet. 

£lifSe  thii,gs  be-  a lonS  farewell  to.Locksley  Hall! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof  tree  fall. 

CrTmLinTFZh°^  'Vi  n]argi.n’  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  m its  breast  a thunderbolt. 

Fot  theamiahtL°CkSaey  P*11’  W‘th  rain  or  hail>  or  fire  or  snow; 
i^or  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I go. 


GODIVA. 

I waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry  ; 
l hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the 
bridge , 

To  watch  the  three  tall  spires  ; and  there 
I shaped 

The  city’s  ancient  legend  into  this : — 
Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  awheel 
;ry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that 
prate 

>f  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the 
people  well, 

md  loathed  to  see  them  over-taxM  - 
but  she 

>id  more,  and  underwent,  and  over- 
came, 

he  woman  of  a thousand  summers 
back, 

odiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who 
ruled 

i Coventry:  for  when  he  laid  a tax 
pon  ns  town,  and  all  the  mothers 
brought 

leir  children,  clamoring,  “ If  we  pav 
we  starve ! ” J> 

ie  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him 
where  he  strode 

)out  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone 
s beard  a foot  before  him,  and  his 
hair 

yard  behind.  She  told  him  of  their 
tears, 


And  pray’d  him,  “ If  they  pay  this  tax. 
they  starve.” 

Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half- 
amazed, 

“ You  would  not  let  your  little  finger 
ache 

For  such  as  these  “ But  I would 
die,”  said  she. 

He  laugh’d,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by 
Paul  : 

Then  fillip  d at  the  diamond  in  her 
ear; 

“ Oh  a7>  ay>  ay,  you  talk  ! ” — “ Alas  ! ” 
she  said, 

“ But  Prove  me  what  it  is  I would  not 
do.” 

And  from  a heart  as  rough  as  Esau’s 
hand, 

He  answer’d,  “ Ride  you  naked  thro' 
the  town, 

And  I repeal  it”;  and  nodding,  as  in 
scorn, 

He  parted,  with  great  strides  among 
his  dogs. 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her 
mind, 

As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift 
and  blow, 

Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 

Jill  pity  won.  She  sent  a herald  forth, 

And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of 
trumpet,  all 

The  hard  condition;  but  that  she 
would  loose 


114 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


The  people  : therefore,  as  they  loved 
her  well, 

From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should 
pace  the  street, 

No  eye  look  down,  she  passing ; but 
that  all 

Should  keep  within,  daor  shut,  and 
window  barr’d. 

Then  lied  she  to  her  inmost  bower, 
and  there 

Unclasp’d  the  wedded  eagles  of  her 
belt, 

The  grim  Earl’s  gift ; but  ever  at  a 
breath 

She  linger’d,  looking  like  a summer 
moon 

Half-dipt  in  cloud:  anon  she  shook 
her  head, 

And  shower’d  the  rippled  ringlets  to 
her  knee ; 

Unclad  herself  in  haste;  adown  the 
stair 

Stole  on;  and,  like  a creeping  sun- 
beam, slid 

From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she 
reach’d 

The  gateway  ; there  she  found  her 
palfrey  trapt 

In  purple  blazon’d  with  armorial 
gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 
chastity  : 

The  deep  air  listen’d  round  her  as  she 
rode, 

And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed 
for  fear. 

The  little  wide-mouth’d  heads  upon 
the  spout 

Had  cunning  eyes  to  see  : the  barking 
cur 

Made  her  cheek  flame : her  palfrey’s 
footfall  shot 

Like  horrors  thro’  her  pulses : the 
blind  walls 

Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes ; and 
overhead 

Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared  : 
but  she 

Not  less  thro’  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she 
saw 

The  white-flower’d  elder-thicket  from 
the  field 


Gleam  thro’  the  Gothic  archway  in  tin 
wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  witl 
chastity  : 

And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thank 
less  earth, 

The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come 

Boring  a little  auger-hole  in  fear, 

peep’d — but  his  eyes,  before  they  hat 
their  will, 

Were  shrivell’d  into  darkness  in  hi 
head, 

And  dropt  before  him.  So  the  P owen 
who  wait 

On  noble  deeds,  cancell’d  a sense  mi 
used; 

And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass’d  : an 
all  at  once, 

With  twelve  great  shocks  of  soun< 
the  shameless  noon 

Was  clash’d  and  hammer’d  from 
hundred  towers, 

One  after  one:  but  even  then  si 
gain’d 

Her  bower ; whence  reissuing,  robe 
and  crown’d, 

To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tf 
away 

And  built  herself  an  everlasting  nam 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak : 

A pleasant  hour  has  passed  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  dama 
cheek, 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 

As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I went  thro’  many  wayward  moot 
To  see  you  dreaming  — and,  behinc 
A summer  crisp  with  shining  woo< 
And  I too  dream’d,  until  at  last 
Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm 
The  reflex  of  a legend  past, 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  though 
had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I saw, 
Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  a 
A crimson  to  the  quaint  Macaw, 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


115 


And  I will  tell  it.  Turn  jour  face. 
Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest 
eye  — 

The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their 
place, 

And  order’d  words  asunder  fly. 


THE  SLEEPING  PALACE. 

i. 

The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 
Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy 
plains, 

Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

^ Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Taint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl’d, 
Paint  murmurs  from  the  meadows 
come, 

Jike  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 
lo  spirits  folded  in  the  womb 

ii. 

oft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 
On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn, 
he  fountain  to  his  place  returns 
! Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Lere  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 
On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires,' 
he  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

hi. 

oof-haunting  martins  warm  their 
eggs : 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay’d. 
ie  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 
Droop  sleepily  : no  sound  is  made, 

>t  even  of  a gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a picture  seemeth  all 
ian  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings, 
That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the 
wall. 

IV. 

re  sits  the  Butler  with  a flask 
Between  his  knees,  half-drain’d ; and 
there 

e wrinkled  steward  at  his  task, 
ihe  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair; 
f PaSe  has  caught  her  hand  in  his : 
ler  lips  are  sever’d  as  to  speak: 


His  own  are  pouted  to  a kiss : 

The  blush  is  fix’d  upon  her  cheek. 


Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 
The  beams,  that  thro’  the  Oriel  shine, 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 
And  beaker  brimm’d  with  noble 
wine. 

Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 
Grave  faces  gather’d  in  a ring.  ' 

His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 

He  must  have  been  a jovial  king. 

VI. 

All  round  a hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 
At  distance  like  a little  wood ; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes, 
And  grapes  with  bunches  red' as 
blood  ; 

All  creeping  plants,  a wall  of  green 
Close-matted,  burr  and  brake  and 
brier, 

And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 
High  up,  the  topmost  palace  spire. 

VII. 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 
And  thought  and  time  be  born  again, 

And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh, 
Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of 
men? 

Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 
As  all  were  order’d,  ages  since. 

Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and 
Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

i. 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet. 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purple  coverlet, 

The  maiden’s  jet-black  hair  has 
grown, 

On  either  side  her  tranced  form 
Forth  streaming  from  a braid  of 
pearl : 

The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 
And  move®  not  on  the  rounded  curl 


116 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


II. 

The  silk  star-broider’d  coverlid 
Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 

Languidly  ever ; and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets  downward 
roll’d, 

Glows  forth  each  softly-shadow’d  arm 
WJth  bracelets  of  the  diamond 
bright : 

Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 
Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with 
light. 

in. 

She  sleeps:  her  breathings  are  not 
heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 

The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr’d 
That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 

She  sleeps  : on  either  hand  upswells 
The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly 
prest : 

She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 
A perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 


THE  ARRIVAL. 

i. 

All  precious  things,  discover’d  late, 
To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth ; 

For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 
And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden 
worth. 

He  travels  far  from  other  skies  — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 

A fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 

ii. 

The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 
That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 

Are  wither’d  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scatter’d  blanching  on  the  grass. 

He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead : 

“ They  perish’d  in  their  daring 
deeds.” 

This  proverb  flashes  thro’  his  head,  ^ 
“ The  many  fail : the  one  succeeds.” 


in. 

He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he 
seeks : 

He  breaks  the  hedge:  he  enters 
there : 

The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks : 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair; 

For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 
About  his  path,  and  hover  near 

With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 
And  whisper’d  voices  at  his  ear. 

iv. 

More  close  and  close  his  footsteps 
wind : 

The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 

Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 
The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 

The  spirit  flutters  like  a lark,  j 

He  stoops— to  kiss  her  — on  hi? 
knee. 

“Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark, 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must 
be!” 


THE  REVIVAL. 

i. 

A touch,  a kiss  ! the  charm  was  snapt 
There  rose  a noise  of  striking  clocks 

And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt 
And  barking  dogs,  and  crowim 
cocks ; 

A fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A breeze  thro’  all  the  garden  swept 

A sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 
And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

ii. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew 
The  butler  drank,  the  stewar 
scrawl’d, 

The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  scream’d,  the  peacoc 
squall’d, 

The  maid  and  page  renew’d  their  stnf< 
The  palace  bang’d,  and  buzz’d  an 
clackt, 

And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dash’d  downward  in  a cataract. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


117 


hi. 

And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke, 
And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear’d, 
And  yawp'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and 
spoke, 

“ By  holy  rood,  a royal  beard ! 

Eow  say  you?  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 
'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 

IV. 

* Bardy,"  return’d  the  king,  “but  still 
My  joints  are  somewhat  stiff  or  so. 
Hy  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 
I mention'd  half  an  hour  ago  ? " 

Hie  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  return'd  reply  : 
lut  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 
And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 


THE  DEPARTURE. 

i. 

Ind  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
^nd  far  across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 
across  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  this  utmost  purple  rim, 
md  deep  into  the  dying  day 
The  happy  princess  follow'd  him. 

, ii. 

Ed  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

0 love,  for  such  another  kiss ; " 

0 wake  for  ever,  love,"  she  hears, 

“ 0 love,  'twas  such  as  this  and  this." 
nd  o’er  them  many  a sliding  star, 
And  many  a merry  wind  was  borne, 
nd,  stream'd  thro'  many  a golden  bar’ 

' The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

hi. 

) eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep ! " 

; “ O happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  ! " 

) happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  ! " 
“O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the 
dead ! " 

id  o'er  them  many  a.  flowing  range 


Of  vapor  buoy’d  the  crescent-bark. 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a rosy  change 
The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

IV. 

“ A hundred  summers  ! can  it  be  ? 
And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me 
where  ? " 

“ 0 seek  my  father's  court  with  me. 
For  there  are  greater  wonder? 
there." 

And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 
Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 


MORAL. 

i. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my.  lay, 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there. 

Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say. 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 

Oh,  tc  what  uses  chall  we  put 
The  wildweed  flower  that  simply 
blows  ? 

And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 

ii. 

But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead, 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 

According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 

And  liberal  applications  lie 
In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend; 

So  'twere  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 
Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 


L'ENVOI. 

i. 

You  shake  your  head.  A random 
string 

Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 
Well  — were  it  not  a pleasant  thing 
To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 


118 


AM PII I ON. 


And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep 
again ; 

To  sleep  thro’  terms  of  mighty  wars, 
And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more, 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars, 

As  wild  as  anglit  of  fairy  lore ; 

And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 
The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours, 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow, 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes ; 

For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 

ii. 

So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro’  sunny  decadesnewand  strange, 
Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The  tlower  and  quintessence  of 
change. 

hi. 

Ah,  yet  would  I — and  would  I might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take  — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I might  kiss  those  eyes  awake ! 
For,  am  I right,  or  am  I wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not 
care  ; 

You’d  have  my  moral  from  the  song, 
And  I will  take  my  pleasure  there : 
And,  am  I right  or  am  I wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro’  and  thro’, 
To  search  a meaning  for  the  song, 
Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you; 
Nor  finds  a closer  truth  than  this 
All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl’d, 
And  evermore  a costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 

IV. 

For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 
Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 
In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower, 

What  eyes,  like  thine,  have  waken’d 
hopes, 

What  lips,  like  thine,  so  sweetly 
join’d  ? 

Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 
The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind; 


Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved, 
Yet  sleeps  a dreamless  sleep  to  me 
A sleep  by  kisses  undissolved. 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see 
But  break  it.  In  the  name  of  wife, 
And  in  the  rights  that  name  ma; 
give, 

Are  clasp’d  the  moral  of  thy  life, 
And  that  for  which  I care  to  live. 


EPILOGUE. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And,  if  you  find  a meaning  there, 
O whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

“ What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  n 
fair?” 

What  wonder  I was  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  deligl 
Like  long-tail’d  birds  of  Paradise 
That  float  thro’  Heaven,  and  cam: 
light  ? 

Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 
By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  - 
But  take  it  — earnest  wed  with  spur 
And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 

My  father  left  a park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 

A garden  too  with  scarce  a tree, 
And  waster  than  a warren  : 

Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  c si 
It  is  not  bad  but  good  land, 

And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

O had  I lived  when  song  was  great 
In  days  of  old  Amphion, 

And  ta’en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 
Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion ! 

And  had  I lived  when  song  was  gre 
And  legs  of  trees  were  limber, 
And  ta’en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 
And  fiddled  in  the  timber  !s 

’Tis  said  he  had  a tuneful  tongue, 
Such  happy  intonation, 
Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 
He  left  a small  plantation ; 


AMPHION ; 


119 


Wherever  in  a lonely  grove 
He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes, 

The  gouty  oak  began  to  move, 

And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown, 
And,  as  tradition  teaches. 

Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 
Coquetting  with  young  beeches ; 
And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wreath 
Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming, 

And  from  the  valleys  underneath 
Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  linden  broke  her  ranks  and  rent 
The  woodbine  wreaths  that  bind  her. 
And  down  the  middle,  buzz ! she  went 
With  all  her  bees  behind  her: 

The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded, 

The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 
By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shod  alder  from  the  wave. 
Came  yews,  a dismal  coterie ; 

Each  pluck'd  his  one  foot  from  the 
grave, 

Poussetting  with  a sloe-tree : 

)ld  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine. 
The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow, 

\.nd,  sweating  rosin,  plump'd  the  pine 
Prom  many  a cloudy  hollow. 

Lnd  wasn’t  it  a sight  to  see, 

.When,  ere  his  song  was  ended, 
ake  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree, 
The  country-side  descended ; 
md  shepherds  from  the  mountain- 
eaves 

Look’d  down,  half-pleased,  half- 
frighten'd, 

.s  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 
The  random  sunshine  lighten’d ! 

h,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 

And  wanton  without  measure  ; 

> youthful  and  so  flexile  then, 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure, 
vang  out,  my  fiddle ! shake  the 
twigs ! 


And  make  her  dance  attendance ; 
Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigs. 
And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons 

'Tis  vain  ! in  such  a brassy  age 
I could  not  move  a thistle  ; 

The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 
Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle  ; 

Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 
With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 
A jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick,  ' 
The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I hear  ? a sound 
Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading ; 

0 Lord ! — 'tis  in  my  neighbor's  ground, 
The  modern  Muses  reading. 

They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  thro* 
there, 

And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees 
To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither’d  Misses  ! how  they  prose 
O'er  books  of  tra veil'd  seamen, 

And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 
From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 

They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut, 

And  alleys,  faded  places, 

By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 
And  warm'd  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt, 
Are  neither  green  nor  sappy ; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt, 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 

Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 
That  blows  upon  its  mountain, 

The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 
Beside  its  native  fountain. 

And  I must  work  thro’  months  of  toil 
And  years  of  cultivation, 

Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 
^ To  grow  my  own  plantation. 

I'll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

1 will  not  vex  my  bosom  : 

Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 

A little  garden  blossom. 


120 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE . 


ST.  AGNES’  EVE. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 

My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 

The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 
Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 

Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 
That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
viake  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 
As  are  the  frosty  skies, 

Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 
That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil’d  and 
dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 

As  this  pale  taper’s  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 

So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 
My  spirit  before  Thee ; 

So  in  mine  earthly  house  I am, 

To  that  I hope  to  be. 

Break  up  the  heavens,  O Lord ! and  far, 
Thro’  all  yon  starlight  keen, 

Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a glittering  star, 
In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 

All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 
And  strows  her  lights  below, 

And  deepens  on  and  up  ! the  gates 
Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom 
waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 

The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 

A light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of 
men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 

My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 
Because  my  heart  is  pure. 

The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 
The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 


The  splinter’d  spear-shafts  crack  and 

fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 

They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 
And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 
That  lightly  rain  from  ladies’  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 
On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 

For  them  I battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 

But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow’d  in  crypt  and 
shrine  : 

I never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden’s  hand  in  mine. 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 
Me  mightier  transports  move  and 
thrill ; 

So  keep  I fair  thro’  faith  and  prayer 
A virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 
A light  before  me  swims, 

Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 
I hear  a noise  of  hymns : 

Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I ride ; 

I hear  a voice  but  none  are  there ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 
The  tapers  burning  fair. 

Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 
The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 
And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meree 
I find  a magic  bark  ; 

I leap  on  board  : no  helmsman  steers 
I float  till  all  is  dark. 

A gentle  sound,  an  awful  light! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 
On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 

Ah,  blessed  vision  ! blood  of  God ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 

As-  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides,, 
And  star-like  mingles  with  the  start*. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 
Thro’  dreaming  towns  I <’o. 


EDWARD  GRAY. 


121 


The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas 
morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 
And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand 
and  mail ; 

But  o’er  the  dark  a glory  spreads, 
And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 

I leave  the  plain,  I climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 
^ly  o’er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A maiden  knight  — to  me  is  given 
Such  hope,  I know  not  fear ; 

I yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 
That  often  meet  me  here. 

I muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel’s  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I wear, 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and 
eyes, 

Are  touch’d,  are  turn’d  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  thro’  the  mountain-walls 
A rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 

Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 
Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 

“ 0 just  and  faithful  knight  of  God ! 

Iiide  on  ! the  prize  is  near.” 

So  pass  1 hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and 
pale, 

Adl-arm’d  I ride,  whate’er  betide, 

Until  I find  the  holy  Grail. 

EDWARD  GRAY. 

5Weet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder 
town 

Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 

And  have  you  lost  your  heart?” 
she  said ; 

“And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward 
Gray  ? ” 


Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I turn’d  away : 

“Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no 
more 

Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward 
Gray. 

“ Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well, 
Against  her  father’s  and  mother’s 
will : 

To-day  I sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 

By  Ellen’s  grave,  on  the  windy  hill 

“ Shy  she  was,  and  I thought  her  cold; 
Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over 
the  sea ; 

Pill’d  I was  with  folly  and  spite, 
When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for 
me. 


“ Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I said ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day : 

‘ You’re  too  slight  anfl  fickle,’  I said, 
‘To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward 
Gray.’ 

“ There  I put  my  face  in  the  grass  — 
Whisper’d,  ‘ Listen  to  my  despair : 

I repent  me  of  all  I did  : 

Speak  a little,  Ellen  Adair ! ’ 

“ Then  I took  a pencil,  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I lay, 

‘Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair; 
And  here  the  heart  of  Edward 
Gray ! ’ 

“Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a bird,  from  tree  to 
tree; 

But  I will  love  no  more,  no  more, 

Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me- 

“ Bitterly  wept  I over  the  stone : 

Bitterly  weeping  I turn’d  away : 
There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  I 
And  there  the  heart  of  Edward 
Gray ! ” 


122 


WILL  WATERPROOF’S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


WILL  WATERPROOF’S 
LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 

MADE  AT  THE  COCK. 

0 plump  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I most  resort, 

How  goes  the  time  ? ’Tis  five  o’clock. 

Go  fetch  a pint  of  port : 

But  let  it  not  he  such  as  that 
You  set  before  chance-comers, 

But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 
On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind,  ' 

And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 
Her  influence  on  the  mind, 

To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes, 
Ere  they  be  half-forgotten  ; 

Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times, 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

1 pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 
Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 

And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips, 
These  favor’d  lips  of  mine ; 

Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 
New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom, 

And  barren  commonplaces  break 
In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I pledge  her  silent  at  the  board ; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 
Of  all  I felt  and  feel. 

Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 
And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 

And  that  child’s  heart  within  the  man’s 
Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro’  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns, 
By  many  pleasant  ways, 

Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 
The  current  of  my  days  : 

I kiss  the  lips  I once  have  kiss’d ; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer ; 

And  softly,  thro’  a vinous  mist, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 
Unboding  critic-pen, 

Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 


Which  vexes  public  men, 

Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 
For  that  which  all  deny  them  — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 
And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho’  all  the  world  forsake, 
Tho’  fortune  clip  my  wings, 

I will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 
Half-views  of  men  and  things. 

Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood ; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather  ; 

But  for  some  true  result  of  good 
All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes ; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new ; 

Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and 
shapes, 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 

Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme. 
We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons, 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 
We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid ; 

With  fair  horizons  bound  : 

This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and 
shade 

Comes  out  a perfect  round. 

High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And  set  in  Heaven’s  third  story, 

I look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro’  a kind  of  glory. 

Head-waiter,  honor’d  by  the  guest 
Half-mused,  or  reeling  ripe, 

The  pint,  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 
That  ever  came  from  pipe. 

But  tho’  the  port  surpasses  praise. 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 

Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  ? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ  ? 

For  since  I came  to  live  and  learn. 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 
This  wheel  within  my  head, 

Which  bears  a season’d  brain  about, 
Unsubject  to  confusion, 

Tho’  soak’d  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 
i Thro’  every  convolution. 


WILL  WATERPROOF’S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


123 


For  I am  of  a numerous  house. 

With  many  kinsmen  gay, 

Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse 
As  who  shall  say  me  nay : 

Each  month,  a birth-day  coming  on, 
We  drink  defying  trouble, 

Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 
And  then  we  drank  it  double ; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 

Or  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo ; 

Or  stow'd,  when  classic  Canning  died, 
In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 

Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 
The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call. 

She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all  : 

She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 
Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 
The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout. 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 

He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 
That  with  the  napkin  dally ; 

£ think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a larger  egg 
Than  modern  poultry  drop, 

Stept  forward  on  a firmer  leg, 

And  cramm'd  a plumper  crop ; 

Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow’d  lustier  late  and  early, 

Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 
And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a court  he  saw 
A something-pottle-bodied  boy 
That  knuckled  at  the  taw : 

He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and 
good, 


Flew  over  roof  and  casement : 

His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 
Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe  and  spire, 
And  follow'd  with  acclaims, 

A sign  to  many  a staring  shire 
Came  crowing  over  Thames. 

Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bore, 
Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter, 
One  fix'd  for  ever  at  the  door, 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a legend  blow 
Among  the  chops  and  steaks ! 

'Tis  but  a steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  com- 
mon ; 

As  just  and  mere  a serving-man 
As  any  born  of  woman. 

I ranged  too  high : what  draws  me 
down 

Into  the  common  day  7 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half  crown, 
Which  I shall  have  to  pay  7 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 
Nor  wholly  comfortable, 

I sit,  my  empty  glass  reversed, 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I take  myself  to  task  ; 

Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 
I leave  an  empty  flask : 

For  I had  hope,  by  something  rare 
To  prove  myself  a poet : 

But,  while  I plan  and  plan,  my  hair 
Is  gray  before  I know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather'd  up ; 

The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can, 
Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup : 

And  others'  follies  teach  us  not, 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  wha$ 
Our  own  experience  preaches. 


124 


LADY  CLARE. 


Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 

But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone; 

'Tis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 

'Tis  gone : a thousand  such  have  slipt 
Away  from  my  embraces. 

And  fall’n  into  the  dust}'  crypt 
Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  ! thy  betters  went 
Long  since,  and  came  no  more ; 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 
From  many  a tavern-door, 

With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 
From  misty  men  of  letters ; 

The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits  — 
Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet’s  words  and 
looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow  : 

Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 
Had  made  him  talk  for  show; 

But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm’d, 
He  flash'd  his  random  speeches, 

Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 
His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  for  ever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth ! 

For  should  I prize  thee,  couldst  thou 
last, 

At  half  thy  real  worth  ? 

I hold  it  good,  good  things  should 

pass : 

With  time  I will  not  quarrel : 

It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 
That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here, 
To  which  I most  resort, 
l too  must  part : I hold  thee  dear 
For  this  good  pint  of  pon. 

For  this,  thou  shalt  from  ail  things 
suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter; 

And  wheresoe'er  thou  move,  good  luck 
Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 
The  sphere  thy  fate  allots : 

Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 


Go  down  among  the  pots  : 

Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 
In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 

Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 
Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  out 
skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot; 

Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins. 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot; 

To  come  and  go,  and  come  again, 
Returning  like  the  pewit. 

And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 
That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  heau 
The  thick-set  hazel  dies ; 

Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 
The  corners  of  thine  eyes  : 

Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 
Our  changeful  equinoxes, 

Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late 
guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt 

cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 

And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 
Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more  ; 

No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of 
Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven : 
But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  under- 
neath, 

A pint-pot  neatly  graven. 


LADY  CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air 
Lord  Ronald  brought  a lily-white  doo 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Cia-ra 

I trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 

Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they  : 
They  too  will  wed  the  morrow  morn: 
God's  blessing  on  the  da*'  l 


LADY  CLARE. 


i25 


* He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,”  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 
Said,  “ Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee  ? ” 

“ It  was  my  cousin,”  said  Lady  Clare, 
“To-morrow  he  weds  with  me.” 

“ O God  be  thank’d ! ” said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“ That  all  comes  round  so  just  and 
fair  : 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 

“ Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse, 
my  nurse  ? ” 

Said  Lady  Clare,  “ that  ye  speak  so 
wild  ? ” 

“ As  God’s  above,”  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“ I speak  the  truth . vou  are  my 
child. 


u The  old  Earl’s  daughter  died  at  my 
breast ; 

I speak  the  truth,  as  I live  by  bread ! 
[ buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child. 
And  put  my  child  in  her  stead.” 

‘ Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O mother,”  she  said,  “ if  this  be  true, 
Fo  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due.” 

' Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“ But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
ind  all  you  have  will  be  Lord 
Ronald’s, 

When  you  are  man  and  wife.” 

If  I’m  a beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“ I will  speak  out,  for  I dare  not  lie. 
’ull  off,  pull  off,  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by.” 


“Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can.” 

She  said,  “ Not  so  : but  I will  know 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man.” 

“ Nay  now,  what  faith  ? ” said  Alice 
the  nurse, 

“ The  man  will  cleave  unto  his 
right.” 

“And  he  shall  have  it,”  the  lady 
replied, 

“ Tho’  I should  die  to-night.” 

“Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother 
dear ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I sinn’d  for  thee.” 

“ O mother,  mother,  mother,”  she  said, 
“ So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

“ Yet  here’s  a kiss  for  my  mother  dear 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I go.” 

She  clad  herself  in  a russet  gown, 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  By 
down, 

With  a single  rose  in  her  air. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 

Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden’s  hand. 
And  follow’d  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his 
tower  : 

“O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  y out 
worth ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a village 
maid, 

That  arc  the  flower  of  the  earth  ? ‘ 

“ If  I come  drest  like  a village  maid. 

I am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 

I am  a beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“ And  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 


126 


THE  CAPTAIN 


u Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ro- 
nald, 

“For  I am  yours  in  word  and  in 
deed. 

Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ronald, 
“ Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read.” 

O and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 
And  told  him  all  her  nurse’s  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 
He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her  where  she 
stood : 

'*  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  horn, 

And  I,”  said  he,  “the  next  in 
blood  — 

“ If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,”  said  he,  “the  lawful  heir, 
We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare.” 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND  OF  THE  NAVY. 

He  that  only  rules  by  terror 
Doeth  grievous  wrong. 

Deep  as  Hell  I count  his  error. 

Let  him  hear  my  song. 

Brave  the  Captain  was  : the  seamen 
Made  a gallant  crew, 

Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 
Sailors  bold  and  true. 

But  they  hated  his  oppression, 

Stern  he  was  and  rash ; 

So  for  every  light  transgression 
Doom’d  them  to  the  lash. 

Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 
Seem’d  the  Captain's  mood. 

Secret  wrath  like  smother'd  fuel 
Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 

Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 
Hoped  to  make  the  name 

Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 
Wheresoe'er  he  came. 

So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands, 
Many  a harbor-mouth, 

Sailing  under  palmy  highlands 
Far  within  the  South, 
ftn  a day  when  they  were  going 


O'er  the  lone  expanse, 

In  the  north,  her  canvas  flowing, 

Rose  a ship  of  France. 

Then  the  Captain's  color  heighten’d, 
Joyful  came  his  speech: 

But  a cloudy  gladness  lighten’d 
In  the  eyes  of  each. 

“ Chase,”  he  said : the  ship  flew  for 
ward, 

And  the  wind  did  blow ; 

Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norward, 
Till  she  near’d  the  foe. 

Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated, 
Had  what  they  desired : 

Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited  — 
Not  a gun  was  fired. 

But  they  heard  the  foeman’s  thunder 
Roaring  out  their  doom  ; 

All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 
Crashing  went  the  boom, 

Spars  were  splinter'd,  decks  were  shat- 
ter'd, 

Bullets  fell  like  rain ; 

Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter’d 
Blood  and  brains  of  men. 

Spars  were  splinter'd;  decks  were 
broken : 

Every  mother's  son  — 

Down  they  dropt — no  word  was 
spoken  — 

Each  beside  his  gun. 

On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying, 
Were  their  faces  grim. 

In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying, 

Did  thry  smile  on  him. 

Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 
For  his  noble  name, 

With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 
Sold  him  unto  shame. 

Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  con 
founded, 

Pale  he  turn’d  and  red, 

Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 
Falling  on  the  dead. 

Dismal  error!  fearful  slaughter! 

Years  have  wander'd  by, 

Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 
Crew  and  Captain  lie; 

There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 
O’er  them  mouldering, 

And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 
With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 


127 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

“ If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 
Maiden,  I have  watch'd  thee  daily, 
And  I think  thou  lov’st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

“ There  is  none  I love  like  thee." 
He  is  but  a landscape-painter, 

And  a village  maiden  she. 

He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Presses  his  without  reproof  : 

Leads  her  to  the  village  altar, 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 

“ I can  make  no  marriage  present : 

Little  can  I give  my  wife. 

Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 
And  I love  thee  more  than  life.” 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 
See  the  lordly  castles  stand : 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 
Made  a murmur  in  the  land. 

From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 
Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 

“ Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 
Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell." 
So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 

Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 
Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers ; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 
Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great, 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

BuiL  for  pleasure  and  for  state, 
ill  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer : 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
In  that  cottage  growing  nearer. 
Where  they  twain  will  spend  their 
days. 

) but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

He  shall  have  a cheerful  home ; 

>he  will  order  all  things  duly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a gateway  she  discerns 
Vith  armorial  bearings  stately, 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns ; 

>ees  a mansion  more  majestic 
Than  all  those  she  saw  before : 

I any  a gallant  gay  domestic 
Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 
ind  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 
When  they  answer  to  his  call, 


While  he  treads  with  footsteps  firmer 
Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 

And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly, 
Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

“ All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty. 
Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free, 
Not  a lord  in  all  the  county 
Is  so  great  a lord  as  he. 

All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes. 
And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 
Pale  again  as  death  did  prove  : 

But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a lover, 

And  he  cheer'd  her  soul  wflth  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 
Tho'  at  times  her  spirit  sank  : 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meek 
ness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 

And  a gentle  consort  made  he. 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a noble  lady. 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a trouble  weigh'd  upon  her, 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burthen  of  an  honor 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 

Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

And  she  murmur'd,  “ Oh,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape 
painter, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  Irom  me  ! '* 
So  she  droop'd  and  droop'd  before  him, 
Fading  slowly  from  his  side : 

Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him 
Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 
Walking  up  and  pacing  down. 
Deeply  mourn'd  the  Lord  of  Burleigh 
Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her, 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 

“ Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 
That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed.' 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading, 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  hei  spirit  might  have  rest. 


THE  VOYAGE. 


! >8 


THE  VOYAGE. 

i. 

We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 
That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth ; 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 
As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South : 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 
On  open  main  or  winding  shore ! 

W e knew  the  merry  world  was  round. 
And  we  might  sail  for  evermore. 

ii. 

Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the 
brow, 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail: 
The  Lady’s-head  upon  the  prow 
Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer’d 
the  gale. 

The  broad  seas  swell’d  to  meet  the 
keel, 

And  swept  behind  ; so  quick  the  run, 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel. 
We  seem’d  to  sail  into  the  Sun ! 

hi. 

How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire, 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar’d  light ! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 
Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro’  the  slumber  of  the  globe 
Again  we  dash’d  into  the  dawn ! 

IV. 

New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 
Of  waters  lighten’d  into  view  ; 

They  climb’d  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 
Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 
The  houseless  ocean’s  heaving  field, 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 
Of  her  own  halo’s  dusky  shield ; 

v. 

The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen, 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 
And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 


Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove, 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker 
sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 

VI. 

By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 
Gloom’d  the  low  coast  and  quivering 
brine 

With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 
Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine  ; 

By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 
Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 
Glow’d  for  a moment  as  we  past. 

VII. 

O hundred  shores  of  happy  climes, 
How  swiftly  stream’d  ye  by  the 
bark! 

At  times  the  whole  sea  burn’d,  at  times 
With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark ; 
At  times  a carven  craft  would  shoot 
From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bowers, 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and 
fruit, 

But  we  nor  paused  for  fruit  nor 
flowers. 

VIII. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and 
night, 

And  still  we  follow’d  where  she  led, 
In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 

Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 

And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line ; 

But  each  man  murmur’d,  “O  my 
Queen, 

I follow  till  I make  thee  mine.” 

IX. 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam’d 
Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air, 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem’d 
Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge 
fair, 

Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 
Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown’d 
the  sea, 

And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed, 
She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINEVERE.  12° 


x. 

And  only  one  among  us  — him 
We  pleased  not — he  was  seldom 
pleased : 

He  saw  not  far : his  eyes  were  dim  : 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
“ A ship  of  fools,”  he  shriek’d  in  spite, 
“A  ship  of  fools,”  he  sneer’d  and 
wept. 

And  overboard  one  stormy  night 
He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

XI. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd, 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn ; 
We  lov’d  the  glories  of  the  world, 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn. 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and 
cease, 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove 
the  sail 

Across  the  whirlwind’s  heart  of  peace, 
And  to  and  thro’  the  counter  gale  ? 

XII. 

Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 

For  still  we  follow’d  where  she  led  : 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame, 
And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead, 
But,  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound, 
We  follow  that  which  flies  before  : 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 
And  we  may  sail  for  evermore. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND 
QUEEN  GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

LiKe  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles,  from  heaven 
again 

The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh’d  between, 
And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 

The  topmost  elm-tree  gather’d  green 
From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 


Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song: 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled 
strong  : 

Sopetimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel’d 
along, 

Hush’d  all  the  groves  from  fear  of 
wrong : 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 

And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro’  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem’d  a part  of  joyous 
Spring : 

A gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before ; 

A light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 
Closed  in  a golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 
Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set: 
And  fleeter  now  she  sk»mm’d  the 
plains 

Than  she  whose  elfin  prances  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 

When  all  the  glimmering  moorland 
rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro’  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play’d, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  look’d  so  lovely,  as  she  sway’d 
The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 

A man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 

And  all  his  wordly  worth  for  this, 

To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


A FAREWELL. 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 
Thy  tribute  wave  deliver : 

No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shah  be. 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


130 


THE  BEGGAR  MATD. 


Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A rivulet  then  a river: 

No  where  hy  thee  my  steps  shall  he, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


THE  BEGGAR  MATD. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid ; 
She  was  more  fair  than  words  can 
say : 

Bare-footed  came  the  beggar  maid 
Before  the  king  Cophetua. 

In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 
To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way ; 
“ It  is  no  wonder,’’  said  the  lords, 

“ She  is  more  beautiful  than  day.” 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 
She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen: 
One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 
One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome 
mien. 

So  sweet  a face,  such  angel  grace, 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been  : 
Cophetua  sware  a royal  oath : 

“ This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my 
queen  ! ” 


THE  EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked 
hands ; 

Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring’d  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a thunderbolt  he  falls. 


Move  eastward,  happy  earth, and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow: 
From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 

O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go  ; 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 
That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 
And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


Come  not,  when  I am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my 
grave, 

To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 
And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou 
wouldst  not  save. 

There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the 
plover  cry ; 

But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy 
crime 

I care  no  longer,  being  all  unbiest : 

Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I am  sick 
of  Time, 

And  I desire  to  rest. 

Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me 
where  I lie : 

Go  by,  go  by. 


THE  LETTERS. 

i. 

Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A black  yew  gloom’d  the  stagnant 
air, 

I peer’d  athwart  the  chancel  pane 
And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 

A clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A band  of  pain  across  my  brow  ; 

“ Cold  altar,  Heaven  and  earth  shall 
meet  n 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow.’ 

ii. 

I turn’d  and  humrn’d  a bitter  song 
That  mock’d  the  wholesome  humar 
heart, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN 


131 


And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 
We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 
Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry ; 
She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly 
moved  ; 

I saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 
She  wore  the  colors  I approved. 

hi. 

She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a sigh  she  turn’d  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  com- 
prest, 

And  gave  my  Letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 
My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could 
please ; 

As  looks  a father  on  the  things 
Of  his  dead  son,  I look’d  on  these. 

IV. 

She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said  ; 

I raged  against  the  public  liar; 

She  talk’d  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 
But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 
“ No  more  of  love  ; your  sex  is  known  : 

I never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I trust  the  man  alone. 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed, 
v. 

“ Thro’  slander,  meanest  spawn  of 
Hell  — 

And  women’s  slander  is  the  worst, 
And  you,  whom  once  I lov’d  so  well, 
Thro’  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst.” 
I spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 
I shook  her  breast  with  vague 
alarms  — 

Like  torrents  from  a mountain  source 
We  rush’d  into  each  other’s  arms. 

VI. 

We  parted  : sweetly  gleam’d  the  stars, 
And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue, 
Low  breezes  fann’d  the  belfry  bars, 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I drew. 
The  very  graves  appear’d  to  smile, 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow’d 
swells ; 

‘Hark  porch,”  I said,  “and  silent 
aisle, 

There  comes  a sound  of  marriage 
bells. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 

i. 

I had  a vision  when  the  night  was  late  : 

A youth  came  riding  toward  a palace- 
gate. 

He  rode  a horse  with  wings,  that  would 
have  flown, 

But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him 
down. 

And  from  the  palace  came  a child  of 
sin, 

And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led 
him  in, 

Where  sat  a company  with  heated 
eyes, 

Expecting  when  a fountain  should 
arise : 

A sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and 
lips  — 

As  when  the  sun,  a crescent  of  eclipse, 

Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles 
and  capes  — 

Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid 
shapes, 

By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 
and  piles  of  grapes. 

ii. 

Then  methought  T heard  a mellow 
sound, 

Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower 
ground ; 

Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assem- 
bled 

Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trem- 
bled, 

Wov’n  in  circles:  they  that  heard  it 
sigh’d, 

Panted  hand-in-hand  with  faces  pale, 

Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones 
replied  ; 

Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering 
wide 

Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 

Then  the  music  touch’d  the  gates  and 
died , 

Rose  again  from  where  it  seem’d  to 
fail, 

Storm’d  in  orbs  of  song,  a growing 
gale ; 


132 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 
waited, 

As  ’twere  a hundred-throated  nightin- 
gale, 

The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb ’d 
and  palpitated ; 

Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid 
mazes, 

Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round : 
Then  they  started  from  their  places, 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue, 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view, 

Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew, 

Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces, 

Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 

Dash’d  together  in  blinding  dew : 

Till,  kill’d  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter’d  headlong  from  the  sky. 

in. 

And  then  I look’d  up  toward  a moun- 
tain-tract, 

That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 
lawn  : 

I saw  that  every  morning,  far  with- 
drawn 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 
God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn, 

Unheeded  : and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 
From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly 
drawing  near, 

A vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 
Came  floating  on  for  many  a month 
and  year, 

Unheeded : and  I thought  I would 
have  spoken, 

And  warn’d  that  madman  ere  it  grew 
too  late : 

But,  as  in  dreams,  I could  not.  Mine 
was  broken, 

When  that  cold  vapor  touch’d  the 
palace  gate, 

And  link’d  again.  I saw  within  my 
head 


A gray  and  gap-tooth’d  man  as  lean 
as  death, 

Who  slowly  rode  across  a wither’d 
heath, 

And  lighted  at  a ruin’d  inn,  and  said : 


IV. 

“ Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way ; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 
Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

“ Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed ; 
What ! the  flower  of  life  is  past: 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

“ Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour, 

At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  ! 

Let  us  have  a quiet  hour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

“ I am  old,  but  let  me  drink ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine ; 

I remember,  when  I think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

“ Wine  is  good  for  shrivell’d  lips, 
When  a blanket  wraps  the  day, 
When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 

And  the  leaf  is  stamp’d  in  clay. 

“ Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame, 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee  s 
What  care  I for  any  name  ? 

What  for  order  or  degree  ? 

“ Let  me  screw  thee  up  a peg  : 

Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine  : 
Cal  lest  thou  that  thing  a leg  ? 

Which  is  thinnest  ? thine  or  mine  ? 

“ Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works  : 

Thou  hast  been  a sinner  too : 

Ruin’d  trunks  on  wither’d  forks, 
Empty  scarecrows,  I and  you! 

“ Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 

Have  a rouse  before  the  morn : 
Every  moment  dies  a man, 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 


THE  VIS/OH  OF  SIN. 


133 


"We  are  men  of  ruin’d  blood; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

■‘'Name  and  fame!  to  fly  sublime 
Thro’  the  courts,  the  camps,  the 
schools, 

Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  by  the  hands  of  fools. 

“Friendship  ! - — to  be  two  in  one  — 
Let  the  canting  liar  pack ! 

Well  I know,  when  I am  gone, 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back. 

a Virtue  ! — to  be  good  and  just  — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well. 

Is  a clot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix’d  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

“ 0 ! we  two  as  well  can  look 
Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 
As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor’s  wife. 

“ Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 

Have  a rouse  before  the  morn  : 
Every  moment  dies  a man, 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 

u Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave : 

They  are  fill’d  with  idle  spleen ; 
Rising,  falling,  like  a wave, 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean 

“ He  that  roars  for  liberty 

Faster  binds  a tyrant’s  power; 

And  the  tyrant’s  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

“Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

“ Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread; 

In  her  right  a civic  wreath, 

In  her  left  a human  head. 

K No,  I love  not  what  is  new ; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house : 


And  I think  we  know  the  hue 
Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

“ Let  her  go  ! her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs, 
Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

“ Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 
Visions  of  a perfect  State: 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

" Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 
And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

" Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue; 

Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free  ; 

What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 
Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

“ Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 
What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 

And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

“ Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love  — 
r April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance; 
Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 

And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

“ Till  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

“ Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads : 
Welcome,  fellow-citizens, 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  ! 

“You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that? 

Every  face,  however  full, 

Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell’d  on  a skull. 

“ Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex ! 

Tread  a measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam  — if  I know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bone& 


134 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN 


“No,  I cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  — nor  yet  your  lip: 

All  the  more  do  I admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

“ Lo  ! God’s  likeness  — the  ground- 
plan  — 

Neither  modeled,  glazed,  nor 
framed : 

Lass  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 
Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed ! 

( Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a little  breath ! 
Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  ! 

“ Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near : 

What ! I am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a bitter  jest  is  dear. 

“ Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl’d ; 
Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 

And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

“ Fill  the  cup  and  fill  the  can  : 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  ! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man: 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn.” 


v. 

The  voice  grew  faint : there  came  a 
further  change : 

Once  more  uprosethe  my  stic  mountain- 
range  : 

Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced 
with  worms, 

And  slowly  quickening  into  lower 
forms ; 

By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum 
of  dross, 

Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch’d 
with  moss. 

Then  some  one  spake  : " Behold  ! it 
was  a crime 

Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore 
with  time.” 

Another  said  : “ The  crime  of  sense 
became 


The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal 
blame.” 

And  one  : “ He  had  not  wholly 

quench’d  his  power ; 

A little  grain  of  conscience  made  him 
sour.” 

At  last  I heard  a voice  upon  the  slope 

Cry  to  the  summit,  “ Is  there  any 
hope  q ” 

To  which  an  answer  peal’d  from  that 
high  land, 

But  in  a tongue  no  man  could  under- 
stand ; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn. 


TO , 

AFTER  READING  A LIFE  AND  LETTERS. 

“ Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones.” 

Shakespeare's  Epitaph. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet’s  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now, 
And  gain’d  a laurel  for  your  brow 
Of  sounder  leaf  than  I can  claim  ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro’  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 
A deedful  life,  a silent  voice  : 

And  you  have  miss’d  the  irreverent 
doom 

Of  those  that  wrear  the  Poet’s  crown : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 
Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die, 

Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 

But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 
Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry  : 

“ Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not 
show  : 

Break  lock  and  seal : betray  the 
trust : 

Keep  nothing  sacred  : tis  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know.” 


TO  E.  L„  ON  INS  TEA  EELS  IN  GREECE. 


135 


Ah  shameless ! for  he  did  but  sing 
A song  that  pleased  us  from  its 
worth  ; 

No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon’d  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best : 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My  Shakespeare’s  curse  on  clown 
and  knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier, 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 
And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory’s  temple-gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 
To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd ! 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN 
GREECE. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Penei’an  pass, 

The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair, 

With  such  a pencil,  such  a pen, 

You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I read  and  felt  that  I was  there  ; 

And  trust  me  while  I turn’d  the  page, 
And  track’d  you  still  on  classic 
ground, 

I grew  in  gladness  till  I found 
My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour’d 

And  glisten’d  — here  and  there  alone 
The  broad-limb’d  Gods  at  random 
thrown 

By  fountain-urns  ; — and  Naiads  oar’d 


A glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars  ; on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell; 
And  many  a slope  was  rich  in  bloom 


From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks, 
And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O Sea! 

And  I would  that  my  tongue  could 
utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O well  for  the  fisherman’s  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at 
play  ! 

O well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O for  the  touch  of  a vanish’d 
hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is 
still ! 


Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a day  that  is 
dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  POET’S  SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 
He  pass’d  by  the  town  and  out  of 
the  street, 

A light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of 
the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the 
wheat, 

And  he  sat  him  down  in  a lonely  plac^ 


136 


THE  BROOK. 


And  chanted  a melody  loud  and 
sweet, 

That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her 
cloud, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the 
bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a spray, 

The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down 
on  his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the 
prey, 

And  the  nightingale  thought, “I  have 
sung  many  songs, 

But  never  a one  so  gay, 

For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away.” 


THE  BBOOK. 

Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted  ; I to 
the  East 

And  he  for  Italy  — too  late  — too  late  : 

One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the 
world  despise ; 

For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip 
and  share, 

And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent 
for  cent ; 

Nor  could  he  understand  how  money 
breeds, 

Thought  it  a dead  thing  ; yet  himself 
could  make 

The  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing 
that  is. 

O had  he  lived ! In  our  schoolbooks 
we  say, 

Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above 
the  crowd, 

They  flourish’d  then  or  then ; but  life 
in  him 

Oould  scarce  be  said  to  flourish,  only 
touch’d 

Cn  such  a time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 

When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a mist 
of  green, 

And  nothing  perfect : yet  the  brook 
he  loved, 

For  which,  in  branding  summers  of 
Bengal, 


Or  ev’n  the  sweet  half-English  Neil 
gherry  air 

I panted,  seems,  as  I re-listen  to  it, 
Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the 
boy, 

To  me  that  loved  him;  for  “O  brook,” 
he  says, 

“O  babbling  brook,”  says  Edmund  in 
his  rhyme, 

“Whence  come  you?  ” and  the  brook 
why  not 2 replies. 

I come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 
I make  a sudden  sally, 

And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a little  town, 

And  half  a hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip’s- farm  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever. 

“Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite 
worn  out, 

Travelling  to  Naples.  There  is  Darn- 
ley  bridge, 

It  has  more  ivy  ; there  the  river ; and 
there 

Stands  Philip’s  farm  where  brook  and 
river  meet. 

I chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a curve  my  banks  I fret 
By  many  a field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I chatter,  chatter,  as  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever. 

“But  Philip  chatter’d  more  thar: 
brook  or  bird ; 

Old  Philip;  all  about  the  fields  you 
caught 

His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the 
dry 

High-elbow’d  grigs  that  leap  in  sum- 
mer grass. 


THE  PROOF. 


337 


I wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a foamy  flake 
Upon  me,  as  I travel 
With  many  a silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever 

“O  darling  Katie  Willows,  his  one 
child ! 

A maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most 
meek; 

A daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not 
coarse  ; 

Straight,  but  as  lissome  as  a hazel 
wand ; 

Her  eyes  a bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 

In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when 
the  shell 

Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit 
within. 

i 

“ Sweet  Katie,  once  I did  her  a good 
turn, 

Her  and  her  far-off  cousin  and  be- 
trothed, 

James  Willows,  of  one  name  and 
heart  with  her. 

For  here  I came,  twenty  years  back  — 
the  week 

Before  I parted  with  poor  Edmund , 
crost 

By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in 
ruins  then, 

hill  makes  a hoary  eyebrow  for  the 
gleam 

Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry — ; 

crost, 

\Vhistling  a random  bar  of  Bonny 
Doon, 

\nd  push’d  at  Philip’s  garden-gate.  . 
The  gate, 

lalf-parted  from  a weak  and  scolding  ] 
hinge, 

•tuck ; and  he  clamor’d  from  a case-  ( 
ment,  ‘Run’ 

■o  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  ( 
below. 


‘ Run,  Katie  ! ’ Katie  never  ran  : she 
moved 

To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine 
bowers, 

A little  flutter’d,  with  her  eyelids 
down, 

Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a 
boon. 

“ What  was  it  1 less  of  sentiment 
than  sense 

Had  Katie ; not  illiterate ; nor  of  those 

Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of  Active 
tears, 

And  nursed  by  mealy-mouth’d  philan- 
thropies, 

Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate 
the  Deed. 


“She  told  me.  She  and  James  had 
quarrell’d.  Why? 

What  cause  of  quarrel  ? None,  she 
said,  no  cause ; 

James  had  no  cause : but  when  I prest 
the  cause, 

I learnt  that  James  had  flickering 
jealousies 

Which  anger’d  her.  Who  anger’d 
James  * I said. 

But  Katie  snatch’d  her  eyes  at  once 
from  mine, 

And  sketching  with  her  slender  pointed 

Some  figure  like  a wizard  pentagram 

< )n  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 

Unclaim’d,  in  flushing  silence,  till  1 
ask’d 

If  James  were  coming.  ‘Coming 
every  day,’ 

She  answer’d,  ‘ever  longing  to  explain, 

But  evermore  her  father  came  across 

With  some  long-winded  tale,  and  broke 
him  short  ; 

And  James  departed  vext  with  him 
and  her.’ 

How  could  I help  her ? ‘Would  I — 
was  it  wrong  ? ’ 

(Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary 
grace 

Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere 
she  spoke) 


138 


THh  BROOK . 


<0  would  I take  her  father  for  one 
hour, 

For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to 
me!’ 

And  even  while  she  spoke,  I saw  where 
James 

Made  toward  us,  like  a wader  in  the 
surf, 

Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in 
meadow-sweet. 

“ 0 Katie,  what  I suffer’d  for  your 

For  in  1 went,  and  call’d  old  Philip  out 

To  show  the  farm:  full  willingly  he 
rose : 

He  led  me  thro’  the  short  sweet- 
smelling lanes 

Of  his  wheat-suburb,  babbling  as  he 
went. 

He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his 
machines; 

He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his 
hogs,  his  dogs ; 

He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his 
guinea-hens ; 

His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their 
roofs 

Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own 
deserts : 

Then  from  the  plaintive  mother’s  teat 
he  took 

Her  blind  and  shuddering  puppies, 
naming  each, 

And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for 
whom  they  were : 

Then  crost  the  common  into  Darnley 
chase 

To  show  Sir  Arthur’s  deer.  In  copse 
and  fern 

Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail. 

Then,  seated  on  a serpent-rooted  beech, 

He  pointed  out  a pasturing  colt,  and 
said  : 

* That  was  the  four-year-old  I sold  the 
Squire.’ 

And  there  he  told  a long  long-winded 
tale 

Of  how  the  Squire  had  seen  the  colt 
at  grass, 

And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter 
wish’d, 


And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the 
farm 

To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price 
he  ask’d, 

And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  he  was 
mad, 

But  he  stood  firm ; and  so  the  matter 
hung; 

He  gave  them  line : and  five  days  after 
that 

He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 

Who  then  and  there  had  offer’d  some- 
thing  more, 

But  he  stood  firm ; *and  so  the  matter 
hung; 

He  knew  the  man ; the  colt  would  fetch 
its  price ; 

He  gave  them  line : and  how  by  chance 
at  last 

(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot, 

The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 

He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the 
farm, 

And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew 
him  in, 

And  there  he  mellow’d  all  his  heart 
with  ale, 

Until  they  closed  a bargain,  hand  in 
hand. 

“ Then,  while  I breathed  in  sight  oi 
haven,  he, 

Poor  fellow,  could  he  help  it  ? recom 
menced, 

And  ran  thro’  all  the  coltish  chronicle 

Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy 
Tallyho, 

Reform,  White  Hose,  Bellerophon,  th 
Jilt, 

Arbaces,  and  Phenomenon,  and  th 
rest, 

Till,  not  to  die  a listener,  I arose, 

And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ; an; 
so 

We  turn’d  our  foreheads  from  the  fal 
ing  sun, 

And  following  our  own  shadows  thric 
as  long 

As  when  they  follow’d  us  from  Philip’ 
door, 

Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  swet 
content 


THE  BROOK. 


139 


e-risen  in  Katie’s  eyes,  and  all  things 
well. 


I steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I slide  by  hazel  covers ; 

I move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I slip,  I slide,  I gloom,  I glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brarably  wildernesses; 

I linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 

I loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  ou  for  ever. 


es,  men  may  come  and  go ; and  these 
are  gone, 

11  gone.  My  dearest  brother,  Ed- 
mund, sleeps, 

ot  by  the  well-known  stream  and 
. rustic  spire, 

at  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 
l Brunelleschi ; sleeps  in  peace : and 
he, 

,)or  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of 
words 

/mains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb  : 
scraped  the  lichen  from  it:  Katie 
, walks 

/the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 
r off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other 
H stars, 

id  breathes  in  converse  seasons.  All 
U are  gone.’' 


So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  seated  on  a 
1 stile 

the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his 
mind 

5 waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o’er 
the  brook 

;onsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 
ised,  and  was  mute.  On  a sudden 
a low  breath 

tender  air  made  tremble  in  the 

hedge 


The  fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony 
rings ; 

And  he  look’d  up.  There  stood  a 
maiden  near, 

Waiting  to  pass.  In  much  amaze  he 
stared 

On  eyes  a bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 

In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when 
the  shell 

Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit 
within : 

Then,  wondering,  ask’d  her  “ Are  you 
from  the  farm  ? ” 

"Yes,”  answer’d  she.  “Pray  stay  a 
little : pardon  me ; 

What  do  they  call  you  ? ” “ Katie.” 
" That  were  strange. 

What  surname  ? “ Willows.”  “No ! ” 
“ That  is  my  name.” 

" Indeed  ! ” and  here  he  look’d  so  self- 
perplext, 

That  Katie  laugh’d,  and  laughing 
blush’d,  till  he 

Laugh’d  also,  but  as  one  before  he 
wakes, 

Who  feels  a glimmering  strangeness 
in  his  dream. 

Then  looking  at  her;  “Too  happy, 
fresh  and  fair, 

Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world’s 
best  bloom, 

To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your 
name 

About  these  meadows,  twenty  years 
ago.” 

“ Have  you  not  heard  ? ” said  Katie, 
“ we  came  back. 

We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  be 
fore. 

Am  I so  like  her?  so  they  said  on 
board. 

Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English 
days, 

My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the 
days 

That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come 
with  me. 

My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest- 
field  : 

But  she  — you  will  be  welcome— 
come  in  ! ” 


140 


AYLMER'S  FIELD . 


AYLMER’S  FIELD. 

1793. 

Dust  are  our  frames  ; and,  gilded  dust, 
our  pride 

Looks  only  for  a moment  whole  and 
sound ; 

Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 

Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  orna- 
ments, 

Which  at  a touch  of  light,  an  air  of 
heaven, 

Slipt  into  ashes,  and  was  found  no 
more. 

Here  is  a story  which  in  rougher 
shape 

Came  from  a grizzled  cripple,  whom 
I saw 

Sunning  himself  in  a waste  field 
alone  — 

Old,  and  a mine  of  memories  — who 
had  served, 

Long  since,  a bygone  Rector  of  the 
place, 

And  been  himself  a part  of  what  he 
told. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer,  that  al- 
mighty man, 

The  county  God  — in  whose  capacious 
hall, 

Hung  with  a hundred  shields,  the 
family  tree 

Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a prostrate 
king  — 

Whose  blazing  wyvern  weathercock’d 
the  spire, 

Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing’d  his 
entry-gates 

And  swang  besides  on  many  a windy 
sign  — 

Whose  eyes  from  under  a pyramidal 
head 

Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save 
his  own  — 

What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than 
her, 

His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he 
loved 

As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully  ? 

But  “ he  that  marries  her  marries  her 
name  ” 


This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself 
and  wife, 

His  wife  a faded  beauty  of  the 
Baths, 

Insipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a card ; 

Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly 
more 

Than  his  own  shadow  in  a sickly  sun. 

A land  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled 
corn, 

Little  about  it  stirring  save  a brook ! 

A sleepy  land,  where  under  the  same 
wheel 

The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year 
by  year ; 

Where  almost  all  the  village  had  one 
name ; 

Where  Aylmer  followed  Aylmer  at 
the  Hall 

And  Averill  Avcrill  at  the  Rectory 

Thrice  over:  so  that  Rectory  and 
Hall, 

Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy, 

Were  open  to  each  other;  tho’  to 
dieam 

That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well 
had  made 

The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle 
up 

With  horror,  wmrse  than  had  he  heard 
his  priest 

Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of, 
men 

Daughters  of  God  ; so  sleepy  was  the 
land. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will’d 
it  so, 

Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range 
of  roofs, 

Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree? 

There  was  an  Aylmer-Averill  mar- 
riage once. 

When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than 
itself, 

And  York’s  white  rose  as  red  as  Lan- 
caster’s, 

With  wounded  peace  which  each  had 
prick’d  to  death. 

“ Not  proven  ” Averill  said,  or  laugh 
ingly 


AYLMER'S  FIELD . 


141 


“ Some  other  race  of  A ve rills” — prov’n 
or  no. 

What  cared  he?  what,  if  other  or  the 
same  ? 

He  leaned  not  on  his  fathers  but  him- 
self. 

But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 
With  Averill,  and  a year  or  two  before 
Call’d  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call’d  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neigh- 
borhood, 

Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith, 
claim 

A distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing 
him. 

Sanguine  he  was : a but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut- 
bloom 

blamed  in  his  cheek  ; and  eager  eyes, 
that  still 

Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful, 
beam’d, 

beneath  a manelike  mass  of  rolling 
gold, 

[ heir  best  and  brightest,  when  they 
dwelt  on  hers, 

)dith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect 
else, 

lut  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 
hone  like  a mystic  star  between  the 
less 

.nd  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro, 
/e  know  not  wherefore  ; bounteously 
made, 

nd  yet  so  finely,  that  a troublous 
j touch 

hinn’d,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in 
i a day, 

joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light, 
nd  these  had  been  together  from  the 
first. 

iolin’s  first  nurse  was,  five  years 
after,  hers  : 

> much  the  boy  foreran : but  when 
his  date 

mbled  her  own,  for  want  of  play- 
mates, he 

ince  Averill  was  a decade  and  a half 
s elder,  and  their  parents  under- 
ground) 


Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite, 
and  roll’d 

His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her 
dipt 

Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the 
prone  swing, 

Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy-chain,  ar- 
ranged 

Her  garden,  sow’d  her  name  and  kept 
it  green 

In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 
Show’d  her  the  fairy  footings  on  the 
grass, 

The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms, 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy 
pines, 

Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look’d  a flight  of  fairy  arrows 
aim’d 

All  at  one  mark,  all  hitting : make- 
believes 

For  Edith  and  himself : or  else  he 
forged,  / 

But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon, 
wreck, 

Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and 
true  love 

Crown’d  after  trial ; sketches  rude  and 
faint, 

But  where  a passion  yet  unborn  per- 
haps 

Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 

And  thus  together,  save  for  college- 
times 

Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang, 

Or  Heaven  in  lavish  bounty  moulded, 
grew. 

And  more  and  more,  the  maiden 
woman-grown, 

He  wasted  hours  with  Averill;  there, 
when  first 

The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 
Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer 
spears 

That  soon  should  wear  the  garland; 
there  again 

When  burr  and  bine  were  gather’d: 
lastly  there 


AYLMER'S  FIELD . 


f42 


At  Christmas ; ever  welcome  at  the 
Hall, 

On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide 
of  youth 

Broke  with  a phosphorescence  charm- 
ing even 

My  lady ; and  the  Baronet  yet  had 
laid 

No  bar  between  them  : dull  and  self- 
involved, 

Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his 
height 

With  half-allowing  smiles  for  all  the 
world, 

And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main  — 
his  pride 

Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his 
ring  — 

He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 

Would  care  no  more  forLeolin’s  walk- 
ing with  her 

Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland’s,  when 
they  ran 

To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he 
rose 

Two  footed  at  the  limit  of  his  chain, 

Roaring  to  make  a third  : and  how 
should  Love, 

Whom  . the  cross-lightnings  of  four 
chance-met  eyes 

Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing, 
follow 

Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 

Seldom,  but  when  he  does,  Master  of 
all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing 
that  they  loved, 

Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a 
bar 

Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken 
ring 

Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 

Wander’d  atwill,and  oft  accompanied 

By  Averill : his,  a brother’s  love,  that 
hung 

With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o’er 
her  peace, 

Might  have  been  other,  save  for 
Leolin’s-- 

Who  knows  ? but  so  they  wander’d, 
hour  by  hour 


Gather’d  the  blossom  that  rebloom’d, 
and  drank 

The  magic  cup  that  filled  itself  anew, 

A whisper  half  reveal’d  her  to  her- 
self. 

For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the 
brook 

Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a silence, 
ran 

By  sallowy  rims,  arose  the  laborers’ 
homes, 

A frequent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low 
knolls 

That  dimpling  died  into  each  other, 
huts 

At  random  scatter’d,  each  a nest  in 
bloom. 

Her  art,  her  hand;  her  counsel  all  had 
wrought 

About  them : here  was  one  that,  sum- 
mer-blanch’d, 

Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  trav- 
eller’s joy 

In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad;  and  here 

The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a hidden 
hearth 

Broke  from  a bower  of  vine  and! 
honeysuckle : 

One  look’d  all  rosetree,  and  another 
wore 

A close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown 
with  stars : 

This  had  a rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 

About  it ; this,  a milky-way  on  earth, 

Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer’s 
heavens, 

A lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors; 

One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted 

eaves 

A summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks 

Each,  its  own  charm ; and  Edith’s 
everywhere  ; 

And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him, 

He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  heT 
poor : 

For  she  — so  lowly-lovely  and  sc 
loving, 

Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal 
hand 

Rose  from  the  clay  it  work’d  in  as  she 
past. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


143 


tfot  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  pass- 
ing by, 

Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a 
height 

That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a 
voice 

Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A splendid  presence  flattering  the 
poor  roofs 

Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than 
themselves 

To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy,  — was  adored  ; 
He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself. 
A grasp 

Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of 
the  heart, 

A childly  way  with  children,  and  a 
laugh 

Ringing  like  proven  golden  coinage 
true, 

Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy 
realm, 

Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side 
the  girl, 

Nursing  a child,  and  turning  to  the 
warmth 

The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby- 
■ soles, 

Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whis- 
per “ Bless, 

jk>d  bless  'em:  marriages  are  made 
in  Heaven." 

i1 

A flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it 
to  her. 

dy  lady's  Indian  kinsman  unan- 
y nounced 

'^ith  half  a score  of  swarthy  faces 
came. 

Tis  own,  tho’  keen  and  bold  and  sol- 
dierly, 

•ear  d by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not 
j fair; 

airer  his  talk,  a tongue  that  ruled 
the  hour, 

ho'  seeming  boastful : so  when  first 
j he  dash’d 

ito  the  chronicle  of  a deedful  day, 

[V  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
f patron  u Good ! my  lady's  kins- 
man ! good ! " 


My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock’d, 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen : unawares  they  flitted  off, 
Busying  themselves  about  the  flo’w- 
erage 

That  stood  from  out  a stiff  brocade 
in  which, 

The  meteor  of  a splendid  season,  she, 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago' 
Stept  thro’  the  stately  minuet  of  those' 
days : 

But  Edith’s  eager  fancy  hurried  with 
him 

Snatch’d  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of 
his  life  : 

Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye. 
Hated  him  with  a momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was 
he  : 

I know  not,  for  he  spoke  not,  only 
shower’d 

His  oriental  gifts  on  everyone 
And  most  on  Edith : like  a storm  he 
came, 

And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a 
storm  he  went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow  d and  ebb'd  uncertain,  to 
return 

When  others  had  been  tested)  there 
was  one, 

A dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels 
on  it 

Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  branch'd 
itself 

Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a breath.  I know  not 
whence  at  first, 

Nor  of  what  race,  the  work;  but  as  he 
told 

The  story,  storming  a hill-fort  of 
thieves 

He  got  it ; for  their  captain  after  fight, 
His  comrades  having  fought  their 
last  below, 

Was  climbing  up  the  valley  ; at  whom 
he  shot : 

Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which 
lie  clung 

Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet^ 


144 


AYLMER'S  FIELD . 


This  dagger  with  him,  which  when 
now  admired 

By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to 
please, 

At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to 
her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  he  was 
gone, 

Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly : 

And  when  she  show’d  the  wealthy 
scabbard,  saying 

“ Look  what  a lovely  piece  of  work- 
manship ! ” 

Slight  was  his  anwser  “Well  — I care 
not  for  it  " : 

Then  playing  with  the  blade  he 
prick'd  his  hand, 

“ A gracious  gift  to  give  a lady,  this  ! " 

“But  would  it  be  more  gracious" 
ask’d  the  girl 

“ Were  I to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 

That  is  no  lady  ? " “ Gracious  1 No  ” 
said  he. 

“ Me  7 — but  I cared  not  for  it,  O 
pardon  me, 

I seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself." 

“ Take  it " she  added  sweetly,  “ tho’ 
his  gift ; 

For  I am  more  ungracious  ev’n  than 
you, 

I care  not  for  it  either";  and  he  said 

“ Why  then  I love  it " : but  Sir  Aylmer 
past, 

And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing 
he  heard. 

The  next  day  came  a neighbor. 
Blues  and  reds 

They  talk’d  of : blues  were  sure  of  it, 
he  thought : 

Then  of  the  latest  fox  — where  started 
— kill’d 

In  such  a bottom:  -Peter  had  the 
brush, 

My  Peter,  first  " : and  did  Sir  Aylmer 
know 

That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had 
been  caught? 

Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to 
hand- 


And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance 
' of  it 

Between  his  palms  a moment  up  and 
down  — 

“ The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were 
warm  upon  him ; 

We  have  him  now " * and  had  Sir 
Aylmer  heard  — 

Nay,  but  he  must  — the  land  was 
ringing  of  it  — 

This  blacksmith  border-marriage  — 
one  they  knew  — 

Haw  from  the  nursery— who  could 
trust  a child  ? 

That  cursed  France  with  her  egalities ! 
And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 
With  nearing  chair  and  lower’d  ac- 
cent) think  — 

For  people  talk’d  — that  it  was  wholly 
wise 

To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill 
walk 

So  freely  with  his  daughter  ? people 
talk’d  — 

The  boy  might  get  a notion  into 
him ; 

The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she 
knew. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  slowly  stiffening 
spoke : 

“The  girl  and  boy,  Sir,  know  their 
differences ! " 

“ Good,"  said  his  friend,  “ but  watch  ! ’ 
and  he,  “ Enough, 

More  than  enough,  Sir!  I can  guarc 
my  own.’’ 

They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmei 
watch’d. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  tin 

house 

Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  sam 
night; 

Pale  as  the  Jephtha’s  daughter, 
rough  piece 

Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which 
Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  t 
that 

Which  Leolin  open’d,  she  cast  bac 
upon  him  . • 

A piteous  glance,  and  vanish  d.  B 
| as  one 


AYLMER'S  FIELD . 


145 


♦.aught  in  a burst  of  unexpected 
storm. 

And  pelted  with  outrageous  epi- 
thets, 

Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the 
House 

On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant; 
her, 

Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a feather- 
fan, 

Him,  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil 
spurr'd, 

And,  like  a beast  hard-ridden,  breath- 
ing hard. 

“ Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 

Presumptuous ! trusted  as  he  was  with 
her, 

7 he  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth, 
their  lands, 

Vhe  last  remaining  pillar  of  their 
house, 

JThe  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient 
name, 

Their  child.”  “Our  child!”  “Our 
heiress  ! ” « Ours  ! ” for  still. 

Like  echoes  from  beyond  a hollow, 
came 

!er  sicklier  iteration.  Last  he  said, 

‘Boy,  mark  me!  for  your  fortunes 
are  to  make. 

swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out 
of  mine. 

low  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised 
on  her, 

erplext  her,  made  her  half  forget 
herself, 

werve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and 
us  — 

hings  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impos- 
sible, 

ar  as  we  track  ourselves  — I say 
that  this  — 

Ise  I withdraw  favor  and  counte- 
nance 

"om  you  and  yours  for  ever  — shall 
you  do. 

r,  when  you  see  her  — but  you  shall 
not  see  her  — 

>,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her, 
but  me : 

id  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken 
with  me, 


And  after  look'd  into  yourself,  you 
find 

That  you  meant  nothing  — as  indeed 
you  know 

That  you  meant  nothing.  Such  a 
match  as  this ! 

Impossible,  prodigious  ! ” These  were 
words, 

As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself, 
Arguing  boundless  forbearance  : after 
which, 

And  Leolin's  horror-stricken  answer 

“I 


So  foul  a traitor  to  myself  and  her, 

Never  oh  never,''  for  about  as  long 

As  the  wind-hover  hangs  in  balance, 
paused 

Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm 
within, 

Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and 
crying 

“ Hoy,  should  I find  you  by  my  doors 
again. 

My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like 
a dog ; 

Hence ! ''  with  a sudden  execration 
drove 

The  footstool  from  before  him,  and 
arose ; 

So,  stammering  “scoundrel”  out  of 
teeth  that  ground 

As  in  a dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin 
still 

Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old 
man 


Follow'd,  and  under  his  own  lintel 
stood 

Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a hoary 
face 


Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth, 
but  now, 

Beneath  a pale  and  unimpassion'd 
moon, 

Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and 
deform'd. 


Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful 

eye 

That  watch'd  him,  till  he  heard  the 
ponderous  door 

Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro' 
the  land, 


146 


AYLMER'S  FIELD . 


Went  Leolin;  then,  his  passions  all 
in  flood 

And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 

Down  thro’  the  bright  lawns  to  his 
brother’s  ran, 

And  foam’d  away  his  heart  at  Aver- 
ill’s  ear : 

Whom  Averill  solaced  as  he  might, 
amazed : 

The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  fath- 
er’s, friend : 

He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen 
it  long ; 

He  must  have  known,  himself  had 
known:  besides, 

He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter 
forth 

Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the 
west, 

Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves 
be  sold. 

Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander  d 
Leolin  to  him. 

“ Brother,  for  I have  loved  you  more 
as  son 

Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you : I my- 
self — 

What  is  their  pretty  saying?  jilted, 
is  it  1 

Jilted  I was  : I say  it  for  your  peace. 

Tain’d,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the 
shame 

The  woman  should  have  borne,  humili- 
ated, 

I lived  for  years  a stunted  sunless  life  ; 

Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 

Watching  your  growth,  I seem’d  again 
to  grow. 

Leolin,  I almost  sin  in  envying  you: 

The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 

Loves  you:  I know  her:  the  worst 
thought  she  has 

Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand : 

She  must  prove  true : for,  brother, 
where  two  fight 

The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love 
are  strength, 

And  you  are  happy : let  her  parents 
be.” 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon 
them  — 


Insolent,  brainless,  heartless ! heiress, 
wealth, 

Their  wealth,  their  heiress!  wealth 
enough  was  theirs 

For  twenty  matches.  Were  he  lord 
of  this, 

Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should 
marry  on  it, 

And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and 
himself 

Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.  He 
believed 

This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mam- 
mon made 

The  harlot  of  the  cities:  nature  crost 

Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 

That  saturate  soul  with  body.  Name 
too ! name, 

Their  ancient  name!  they  might  b( 
proud ; its  worth 

Was  being  Edith’s.  Ah  how  pale  sh( 
had  look’d 

Darling,  to-night!  they  must  have 
rated  her 

Beyond  all  tolerance.  These  ol< 
pheasant-lords,. 

These  partridge-breeders  of  a thou- 
sand years, 

Who  had  mildew’d  in  their  thousand; 
doing  nothing 

Since  Egbert  — why,  the  greater  thei 
disgrace ! 

Fall  back  upon  a name ! rest,  rot  1 


that ! 

Not  keep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler 
fools, 

With  such  a vantage-ground  for  nobl 
ness ! 

He  had  known  a man,  a quintessem 
of  man, 

The  life  of  all  — who  madly  loved 
and  he, 

Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  fa  the 
fools, 

Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made 
end. 

He  would  not  do  it!  her  sweet  la 
and  faith 

Held  him  from  that : but  he  had  po 
ers,  he  knew  it : 

Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  male 
name, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


147 


Name,  fortune  too : the  world  should 
ring  of  him 

To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in 
their  graves : 

Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would 
he  be  — 

“O  brother,  I am  grieved  to  learn 
your  grief  — 

Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my 
say/’ 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own 
excess, 

Amd  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own, 

He  laugh’d ; and  then  was  mute ; but 
presently 

V^ept  like  a storm : and  honest  Averill 
seeing 

How  low  his  brother’s  mood  had  fallen, 
fetch’d 

His  richest  beeswing  from  a binn  re- 
served 

?or  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red, 
and  told 

The  vintage  — when  this  Aylmer  came 
of  age  — 

Then  drank  and  past  it;  till  at  length 
the  two, 

Hio’  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again, 
agreed 

Hiat  much  allowance  must  be  made 
for  men. 

Lfter  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier 
glow 

’aded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose 
held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers 
met, 

l perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
hat  darken’d  all  the  northward  of 
her  Hall. 

.im,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom 
prest 

i agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 
ersuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter 
her  : 

e,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go, 
ibor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 
i such  a sunlight  of  prosperity 
e should  not  be  rejected.  “ Write  to  ' 
me! 


They  loved  me,  and  because  I love 
their  child 

They  hate  me  : there  is  war  between 
us,  dear, 

Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours;  we 
must  remain 

Sacred  to  one  another.”  So  they 
talk’d, 

Poor  children,  for  their  comfort:  the 
wind  blew ; 

The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own 
bitter  tears, 

Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven, 
mixt 

Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss’d  each 
other 

In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar’d 
the  pine. 

So  Leolin  went ; and  as  we  task  our. 
selves 

To  learn  a language  known  but  smat> 
teringly 

In  phrases  here  and  there  at  random, 
toil’d 

Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our 
law. 

That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 

That  wilderness  of  single  instances, 

Thro’  which  a few,  by  wit  or  fortune 
led, 

May  beat  a pathway  out  to  wealth  and 
fame. 

The  jests,  that  flash’d  about  the  plead- 
er’s room, 

Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the 
scurrilous  tale,  — 

Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades 
deep 

In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and 
died, 

And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall 
die  — 

Were  dead  to  him  already ; bent  as  he 
was 

To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong 
in  hopes, 

And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he, 

Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine,  and  exer 
cise, 

Except  when  for  a breathing-while  a t 
eve. 


148 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour,  he 
ran 

Beside  the  river-hank : and  then  indeed 

Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands 
of  power 

Were  bloodier,  and  the  according 
hearts  of  men 

Seem’d  harder  too  ; but  the  soft  river- 
breeze, 

Which  fann’d  the  gardens  of  that  rival 
rose 

Yet  fragrant  in  a heart  remembering 

His  former  talks  with  Edith,  on  him 
breathed 

Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro, 

After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with 
air, 

Then  to  his  books  again.  My  lady’s 
cousin, 

Ilalf-sickening  of  his  pension’d  after- 
noop, 

Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or 
twice, 

Ran  a Malayan  amuck  against  the 
times, 

Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all 
mankind, 

Answer’d  all  queries  touching  those  at 
home 

With  a heaved  shoulder  and  a saucy 
smile, 

And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the 
world, 

And  air’d  him  there : his  nearer  friend 
would  say 

“ Screw  not  the  chord  too  sharply  lest 
it  snap.” 

Then  left  alone  he  pluck’d  her  dagger 
forth 

From  where  his  worldless  heart  had 
kept  it  warm, 

Kissing  his  vows  upon  it  like  a knight. 

And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk’d  of 
him 

Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise  : 

For  heart,  1 think,  help’d  head : her 
letters  too, 

Tho’  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 

Like  broken  music,  written  as  she 
found 

Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly 
watch’d, 


Charm’d  him  thro’  every  labyrinth  till 
he  saw 

An  end,  a hope,  a light  breaking  upon 
him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into 
flesh, 

Her  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued 
themselves 

To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her 
good. 

Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or 
wealth 

Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him 
they  lured 

Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the 
baits 

Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 

So  month  by  month  the  noise  about 
their  doors, 

And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  ban- 
quets, made 

The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent 
hare 

Falter  before  he  took  it.  All  in  vain. 

Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  return’d 

Leolin’s  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 

So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 

Slipt  o’er  those  lazy  limits  down  the 
wind 

With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 

A mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale, 

And  laughter  to  their  lords  : but  those1 
at  home, 

As  hunters  round  a hunted  creature 
draw, 

The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward 
the  death, 

Narrow’d  her  goings  out  and  comings 
in ; 

Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 

Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier 
farms, 

Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the 
poor 

They  barr’d  her  : yet  she  bore  it : yet 
her  cheek 

Kept  color : wondrous ! but,  O mystery  ! 

What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that 
old  oak, 

So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a 
part 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


149 


Falling  had  let  appear  the  brand  of 
John  — 

Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a tree, 
but  now 

The  broken  base  of  a black  tower,  a 
cave 

Of  touchwood,  with  a single  flourish- 
ing spray. 

There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 
Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood- 
dust 

Found  for  himself  a bitter  treasure- 
trove  ; 

Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and 
read 

Writhing  a letter  from  his  child,  for 
which 

,'ame  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emissary, 
l crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn'd  to 

fly, 

lut  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and 
halter  gave 

■o  him  that  fluster'd  his  poor  parish 
wits 

'he  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore 
besides 

o play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 

> °r  let  them  know  themselves  be- 

tray'd ; and  then, 

3ul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him, 
went 

> ating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miser- 

able. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a despot 
dream 

ie  father  panting  woke,  and  oft,  as 
dawn 

’oused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms, 
yeeping  the  frothfly  from  the  fescue 
brush'd 

ro  the  dim  meadow  toward  his 
treasure-trove, 

zed  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady, 

— who  made 

downward  crescent  of  her  minion 
mouth, 

tless  in  all  despondence,  — read; 
and  tore, 

if  the  living  passion  symbol’d  there 
re  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent; 
and  burnt, 


Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self 
defied, 

Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks 
of  scorn 

In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scatter'd  all  over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a love  as  like  a chidden  child, 
After  much  wailing,  hush'd  itself  at 
last 

Hopeless  of  answer:  then  tho’ Averill 
wrote 

And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain 
himself  — 

All  would  be  well  — the  lover  heeded 
not, 

But  passionately  restless  came  and 
went, 

And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the 
place, 

There  by  a keeper  shot  at,  slightly 
hurt, 

Ragingreturn'd  : nor  was  it  well  for  her 

Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  g^ove  of 
pines, 

Watch'd  even  there  ; and  one  was  set 
to  watch 

The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch'd 
them  all, 

Yet  bitterer  from  his  readings:  once 
indeed, 

Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride 
in  her, 

She  look'd  so  sweet,  he  kiss'd  her 
tenderly 

Not  knowing  what  possess'd  him: 
that  one  kiss 

Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon 
earth  ; 

Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow’d  suit, 

Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose:  and 
then  ensued 

A Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love, 

Or  ordeal  by  kindness  ; after  this 

He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a 
sneer ; 

The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acrimo- 
nies : 

Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly 
word  : 

So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from 
all 

Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 


150 


AYLMER'S  FIELD . 


With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly 
lost 

Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on 
life. 

Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round 
to  spy 

The  weakness  of  a people  or  a house, 
Like  flies  that  haunt  a wound,  or  deer, 
or  men, 

Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the 

Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him  — found 
the  girl 

And  flung  her  down  upon  a couch  ot 
fire, 

Where  careless  of  the  household  faces 
near, 

And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leoiin, 
dhe,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer, 
past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light:  may 
soul  to  soul 

Strike  thro’  a finer  element  of  her 
own? 

g0)  — from  afar,— touch  as  at  once  ? 

or  why  , , 

That  night,  that  moment,  when  she 
named  his  name, 

Did  the  keen  shriek  “ Yes  love,  yes, 
Edith,  yes,” 

Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  cham- 
bers woke, 

And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from 
sleep,  * 

With  a weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and 
trembling, 

His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into 
flames, 

His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit, 
And  his  long  arms  stretch’d  as  to  grasp 

a flyer : , _ , 

Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made 
the  cry  ; , . , , 

And  being  much  befool’d  and  ldioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.  The  second  day , 
My  lady’s  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from 
home,  . , ... 

Found  a dead  man,  a letter  edged  with 
death 


Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  him- 
self , 

Gave  Edith,  redden’d  with  no  bandit  s 
blood : 

« From  Edith  ” was  engraven  on  the 
blade. 


Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upor 
his  death. 

And  when  he  came  again,  his  flocl 
believed  — 

Beholding  how  the  years  which  ar< 
not  Time’s 

Had  blasted  him  — that  many  thou 
sand  days 

Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  tern 
of  life. 

Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  secon< 
death 

Scarce  touch’d  her  thro’  that  nearnes 
of  the  first, 

And  being  used  to  find  her  paste 

Sent  to  the  harrow’d  brother,  pray  in 
him 

To  speak  before  the  people  of  h( 
child, 

And  fixt  the  Sabbath.  Darkly  th: 
day  rose : 

Autumn’s  mock  sunshine  of  the  fadt 
woods 

Was  all  the  life  of  it;  for  hard  ( 

these 

A breathless  burthen  of  low-foldi 
heavens 

Stifled  and  chill’d  at  once ; but  eve 
roof  | 

Sent  out  a listener:  many  too  h 
known 

Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  ai 
since 

The  parents’  harshness  and  the  h<i 
less  loves 

And  double  death  were  widely  nr 
mur’d,  left 

Their  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-iac 
tabernacle, 

To  hear  him  ; all  in  mourning  the 
and  those 

With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribb  i 
glove 


AYLMER'S  FIELD . 


151 


Or  kerchief  ; while  the  church,  — one 
night,  except 

For  greenish  glimmerings  thro’  the 
lancets,  — made 

Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who 
tower’d 

Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either 
grave 

Long  o’er  his  bent  brows  linger’d 
Averill, 

His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from 
which 

Livid  he  pluck’d  it  forth,  and  labor’d 
thro’ 

His  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the 
verse  “ Behold, 

Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate ! ” 

But  lapsed  into  so  long  a pause 
again 

As  half  amazed  half  frighted  all  his 
flock : 

Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness 
of  grief 

Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash’d  his 
angry  heart 

Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became 
one  sea, 

Which  rolling  o’er  the  palaces  of  the 
proud, 

And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  liv- 
ing God  — 

Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a purer 
world  — 

When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 
thunder,  wrought 

Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idola- 
tries, 

Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 

Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven 
of  Heavens, 

And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as 
the  Highest  ? 

‘ Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy 

j brute  Baal, 

And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 

tFor  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou 
clothed  thy  God. 

Then  came  a Lord  in  no  wise  like  to 
Baal. 


The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.  Surely 
now 

The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the 
rose. 

Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship 
thine  own  lusts  ! — 

No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel 
to  — 

Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and 
flowing  lawns, 

And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily 
grow, 

And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heral- 
dries. 

In  such  a shape  dost  thou  behold  thy 
God. 

Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him ; 
for  thine 

Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a hair 
Ruffled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot 
die ; 

And  tho’  thou  numberest  with  the 
followers 

Of  One  who  cried,  * Leave  all  and  fol- 
low me.’ 

Thee  therefore  with  Ilis  light  about 
thy  feet, 

Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine 
ears, 

Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord 
from  Heaven, 

Born  of  a village  girl,  carpenter’s  son, 
Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the 
Mighty  God, 

Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the 
two ; 

Crueller : as  not  passing  thro’  the  fire 
Bodies,  but  souls  — thy  children’s  — 
thro’  the  smoke. 

The  blight  of  low  desires  — darkening 
thine  own 

To  thine  own  likeness;  or  if  one  of 
these, 

Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee, 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight 
and  fair  — 

Friends,  I was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a 
one 


152 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sor- 
row for  her  — 

Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well. 

Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of 
corn, 

Fair  as  the  angel  that  said  ‘ Hail ! 9 
she  seem’d, 

Who  entering  fill’d  the  house  with 
sudden  light. 

Jot  so  mine  own  was  brighten’d: 
where  indeed 

The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of 
Heaven 

Dawn’d  sometime  thro’  the  doorway  ? 
whose  the  babe 

Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 

Warm’d  at  her  bosom  ? The  poor 
child  of  shame 

The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared 
for,  leapt 

To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten 
heart, 

-As  with  the  mother  he  had  never 
known, 

In  gambols ; for  her  fresh  and  inno- 
cent eyes 

Had  such  a star  of  morning  in  their 
blue, 

That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 

Broke  into  nature’s  music  when  they 
saw  her. 

Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysteri- 
ous way 

Thro’  the  seal’d  ear  to  which  a louder 
one 

Was  all  but  silence  — free  of  alms 
her  hand  — 

The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage- 
walls  with  flowers 

Has  often  toil’d  to  clothe  your  little 
ones ; 

How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man’s 
brow 

Cool’d  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow 
smooth ! 

Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared 
it  not? 

One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten 
it  ? 

One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe  ? 

Or  when  some  heat  of  difference 
sparkled  out. 


How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between 
your  wraths, 

And  steal  you  from  each  other!  for 
she  walk’d 

Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord 
of  love. 

Who  still’d  the  rolling  wave  of 
Galilee ! 

And  one — of  him  I was  not  bid  to 
speak — 

Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also 
knew. 

Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy 
love. 

And  these  had  been  together  from  the 
first ; 

They  might  have  been  together  till 
the  last. 

Friends,  this  frail  bark  of  ours,  when 
sorely  tried, 

May  wreck  itself  without  the  pilot’s 
guilt, 

Without  the  captain’s  knowledge: 
hope  with  me. 

Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went 
hence  with  shame  ? 

Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of 
these 

I cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow’d 
walls, 

€ My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate.’  ” 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers 
wept ; but  some, 

Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns 
than  those 

That  knit  themselves  for  summer 
shadow,  scowl’d 

At  their  great  lord.  He,  when  it 
seem’d  he  saw 

No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar, 
but  fork’d 

Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his 
head, 

Sat  anger-charm’d  from  sorrow,  sol 
dier-like, 

Erect:  but  when  the  preacher’s  ca 
dence  flow’d 

Softening  thro’  all  the  gentle  attri- 
butes 

Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch  d 
his  face, 


SEA  DREAMS, 


15? 


At  golden  thresholds  ; nor  from  tender 
hearts, 

And  those  who  sorrow’d  o’er  a van- 
ish’d race, 

Pit;’,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant’s  grave. 

Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken 
down, 

And  the  broad  woodland  parcell’d  into 
farms ; 

And  where  the  two  contrived  their 
daughter’s  good, 

Ides  the  hawk’s  cast,  the  mole  has 
made  his  run, 

The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plan- 
tain bores, 

The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless 
face, 

The  slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin 
weasel  there 

Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open 
field. 


SEA  DREAMS. 

A city  clerk,  but  gently  born  and 
bred ; 

His  wife,  an  unknown  artist’s  orphan 
child  — 

Dne  babe  was  theirs,  a Margaret,  three 
years  old : 

They,  thinking  that  her  clear  ger- 
mander eye 

Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city- 
gloom, 

3ame,  with  a month’s  leave  given 
them,  to  the  sea : 

For  which  his  gains  were  dock’d,  how- 
ever small : 

Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his 
work ; besides, 

Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for 
the  man 

Had  risk’d  his  little)  like  the  little 
thrift, 

Trembled  in  perilous  places  o’er  a 
deep : 

And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his 
face 

yVould  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credu- 
lousness, 

And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which 

1 lured  him,  rogue, 


To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peru* 
vian  mine. 

Now  seaward-bound  for  health  they 
gain’d  a coast, 

All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunning 
cave, 

At  close  of  day;  slept,  woke,  and 
went  the  next, 

The  Sabbath,  pious  variers  from  the 
church, 

To  chapel;  where  a heated  pulpiteer, 

Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple 
men, 

Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  ful- 
minated 

Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her 
creed ; 

L’or  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms, 
and  shriek’d 

“Thus,  thus  with  violence,”  ev’n  as  if 
he  held 

The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  him- 
self 

Were  that  great  Angel;  “Thus  with 
violence 

shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea; 

Then  comes  the  close.”  The  gentle- 
hearted  wife 

Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a world  , 

He  at  his  own  • but  when  the  wordy 
storm 

Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced 
the  shore, 

Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing 
caves, 

Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but 
scarce  believed 

(The  sootflake  of  so  many  a summer 
still 

Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw, 
the  sea. 

So  now  on  sand  they  walk’d,  and  now 
on  cliff, 

Lingering  about  the  thy  my  promon- 
tories, 

Till  all  the  sails  were  darken’d  in  the 
west, 

And  rosed  in  the  east : then  homeward 
and  to  bed: 

Where  she,  who  kept  a tender  Chris- 
tian hope, 

Haunting  a holy  text,  and  still  to  that 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a light  thing 

That  I,  their  guest,  their  host,  their 
ancient  friend, 

I made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my 
race, 

Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as 
cried 

Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that 
swore 

Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and 
made 

Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew 
the  Lord, 

And  left  their  memories  a world’s 
curse  — 4 Behold, 

Your  house  is  left  unto  you  deso- 
late ’ ? ” 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook’d 
no  more : 

Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorse- 
lessly, 

Her  crampt-up  sorrow  pain’d  her,  and 
a sense 

Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 

Then  their  eyes  vext  her ; for  on  en- 
tering 

He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat 
aside  — 

Black  velvet  of  the  costliest  — she 
herself 

Had  seen  to  that : fain  had  she  closed 
them  now, 

Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near’d 

Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when 
she  laid, 

Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he 
veil’d 

His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once, 
as  falls 

A creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken, 
fell 

The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and 
swoon’d. 

Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the 
nave 

Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  mea- 
gre face 

Seam’d  witli  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty 
years : 

And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape 

round 


Ev’n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 

Who  peer’d  at  him  so  keenly,  follow’d 
out 

Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 

Reel’d,  as  a footsore  ox  in  crowded 
ways 

Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his 
death, 

Unpitied ; for  he  groped  as  blind,  and 
seem’d 

Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the 
pews 

And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch’d  the 
door; 

Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot 
stood, 

Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect 
again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the 
gate 

Save  under  pall  with  bearers.  In  one 
month, 

Thro’  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier 
hours, 

The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her 
child ; 

And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his 
house 

About  him,  and  the  change  and  not 
the  change, 

And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  ances- 
tors 

Staring  for  ever  from  their  gilded 
walls 

On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own 
head 

Began  to  droop,  to  fall ; the  man  be- 
came 

Imbecile;  his  one  word  was  “ deso- 
late ” ; 

Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death 
was  he ; 

But  when  the  second  Christmas  came, 
escaped 

His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he 
felt, 

To  find  a deeper  in  the  narrow 

gloom 

By  wife  and  child ; nor  wanted  at  hifl 
end 

The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


15* 


Paled  at  a sudden  twitch  of  his  iron 
mouth ; 

And  “ O pray  God  that  he  hold  up  ” 
she  thought 

“ Or  surely  I shall  shame  myself  and 
him.” 

“Nor  yours  the  blame  — for  who 
beside  your  hearths 

Can  take  her  place  — if  echoing  me 
you  cry 

^Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  ’ ? 

But  thou,  O thou  that  killest,  hadst 
thou  known, 

O thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  under- 
stood 

The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace 
and  ours ! 

Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that 
calls 

Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste 
‘ Repent 9 1 

Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow 
way, 

Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in 
the  broad 

Cries  ‘ Come  up  hither/  as  a prophet 
to  us  1 

Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint 
and  rock  'i 

Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify  — 

No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire  ? 

Yes,  as  your  meanings  witness,  and 
myself 

Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my 
loss. 

Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past 
your  prayers, 

Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in 
Heaven. 

But  I that  thought  myself  long-suffer- 
ing, meek, 

Exceeding  ‘poor  in  spirit* — how  the 
words 

Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves, 
and  mean 

Vileness,  we  are  grown  so  proud  — I 
wish'd  my  voice 

A rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 

To  blow,  these  sacrifices  thro’  the 
world  — 

Bent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 


To  inflame  the  tribes : but  there  — 
out  yonder  — earth 

Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell 
— O there 

The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry  — 

The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall 
so  fast, 

They  cling  together  in  the  ghastly 
sack  — 

The  land  all  shambles  — naked  mar 
riages 

Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-mur 
der’d  France, 

By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gath- 
ering wolf, 

Runs  in  a river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 

Is  this  a time  to  madden  madness  then  ? 

Was  this  a time  for  these  to  flaunt 
their  pride  ? 

May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as 
dense  as  those 

Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  peo 
pie’s  eyes 

Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great 
sin  from  all ! 

Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must 
canvass  it : 

O rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them, 

Who,  thro'  their  own  desire  accom- 
plish'd, bring 

Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to 
the  grave  — 

Who  broke  the  bond  which  they 
desired  to  break, 

Which  else  had  link’d  their  race  with 
times  to  come  — • 

Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her 
purity, 

Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daugh- 
ter's good  — 

Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they 
did,  but  sat 

Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daugh- 
ter's death  ! 

May  not  that  earthly  chastisement 
suffice  ? 

Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left 
them  bare  ? 

Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 

Will  there  be  children's  laughter  in 
their  hall 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  or  one  stone 


156 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at 
night, 

“ Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your 
wrath,” 

Said,  “Love,  forgive  him;”  but  he 
did  not  speak ; 

And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the 
wife, 

Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died 
for  all, 

And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men, 

And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their 
feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a 
full  tide 

Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the 
foremost  rocks 

Touching,  up  jetted  in  spirts  of  wild 
sea-smoke, 

And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam, 
and  fell 

In  vast  sea-cataracts  — ever  and  anon 

Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within 
the  cliffs 

Heard  thro*  the  living  roar.  At  this 
the  babe, 

Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them, 
wail’d  and  woke 

The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly 
cried, 

“ A wreck,  a wreck ! ” then  turn’d,  and 
groaning  said, 

“ Forgive  ! How  many  will  say,  ‘ for- 
give,’ and  find 

A sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 

To  hate  a little  longer ! No ; the  sin 

That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well 
forgive, 

Hypocrisy,  I saw  it  in  him  at  once. 

Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are 
best? 

Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a riper 
first? 

Too  ripe,  too  late  ! they  come  too  late 
for  use. 

Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and 
beast 

Something  divine  to  warn  them  of 
their  foes : 


And  such  a sense,  when  first  I fronted 
him, 

Said,  ‘Trust  him  not;*  but  after 
when  I came 

To  know  him  more,  I lost  it,  knew  him 
less ; 

Fought  with  what  seem’d  my  own 
uncharity ; 

Sat  at  his  table ; drank  his  costly  wine* ; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for 
his  talk ; 

Went  further,  fool!  and  trusted  him 
with  all, 

All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a dozer, 
years 

Of  dust  and  deskwork ; there  is  nc 
such  mine, 

None ; but  a gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing 
gold. 

Not  making.  Ruin’d!  ruin’d!  the 
sea  roars 

Ruin : a fearful  night ! ” 

“ Not  fearful ; fair,” 
Said  the  good  wife,  “ if  every  star  in 
heaven 

Can  make  it  fair;  you  do  but  hear 
the  tide. 

Had  you  ill  dreams  ?” 

“0  yes,”  he  said,  “I  dream’d 
Of  such  a tide  swelling  toward  the  land, 
And  I from  out  the  boundless  outer 
deep 

Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter’d 
one  * 

Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath 
the  cliffs. 

I thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless 
deep 

Bore  thro’  the  cave,  and  I was  heaved 
upon  it 

In  darkness:  then  I saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger.  ‘ What  a world,’ 
I thought, 

* To  live  in ! ’ but  in  moving  on  I found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave, 
Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream 
beyond : 

And  near  the  light  a giant  woman  sat, 
All  over  earthy,  like  a piece  of  earth, 

I A pickaxe  in  her  hand : then  out  I slipt 


SEA  DREAMS. 


157 


Into  a land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird 
that  sings : 

And  here  the  night-light  flickering  in 
my  eyes 
Awoke  me.” 

4 ‘That  was  then  your  dream,”  she 
said, 

‘ Not  sad,  but  sweet.” 

“So  sweet,  I lay,”  said  he, 
“And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the 
stream 

In  fancy,  till  I slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision  ; for  I dream’ d that 
still 

The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore 
me  on, 

And  that  the  woman  walk’d  upon 
the  brink  : 

1 wonder’d  at  her  strength,  and  ask’d 
her  of  it : 

‘It  came,*  she  said,  ‘by  working  in 
the  mines  : * 

0 then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I 
thought ; 

And  ask’d  ; but  not  a word  ; she  shook 
her  head. 

And  then  the  motion  of  the  current 
ceased, 

And  there  was  rolling  thunder  ; and 
we  reach’d 

A mountain,  like  a wall  of  burs  and 
thorns  ; 

But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the 
hill 

Trod  out  a path  : I follow’d  ; and.  at 
top 

She  pointed  seaward  : there  a fleet  of 
glass, 

That  seem’d  a fleet  of  jewels  under  me, 
Sailing  along  before  a gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thun- 
der, past 

In  sunshine : right  across  its  track 
there  lay, 

Down  in  the  water,  a long  reef  of  gold, 
Or  what  seem’d  gold  : and  I was  glad 
at  first 

To  think  that  in  our  often-ransack’d 
world 


Still  so  much  gold  was  left  ; and  then 
I fear’d 

Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splin- 
ter on  it, 

And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn 
them  off ; 

An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 

(I  thought  I could  have  died  to  save 
it)  near’d, 

Touch’d,  clink’d,  and  clash’d,  and 
vanish’d,  and  I woke, 

I heard  the  clash  so  clearly.  Now  I 
see 

My  dream  was  Life ; the  woman  hon- 
est Work  ; 

And  my  poor  venture  but  a fleet  ot 
glass 

Wreck’d  on  a reef  of  visionary  gold.” 

“ Nay,”  said  the  kindly  wife  to  com- 
fort him, 

“You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled 
down  and  broke 

The  glass  with  little  Margaret’s  medi- 
cine in  it ; 

And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and 
broke  your  dream  : 

A trifle  makes  a dream,  a trifle  breaks.” 

“No  trifle,”  groan’d  the  husband  ; 
“yesterday 

I met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and 
ask’d 

That  which  I ask’d  the  woman  in  my 
dream. 

Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.  ‘ Show 
me  the  books  ! * 

He  dodged  me  with  a long  and  loose 
account. 

‘ The  books,  the  books  ! ’ but  he,  he 
could  not  wait, 

Bound  on  a matter  he  of  life  and 
death  : 

When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel 
seven  and  ten) 

Were  open’d,  I should  find  he  meant 
me  well ; 

And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and 
ooze 

All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 

That  makes  the  widow  lean.  ‘ My 
dearest  friend, 


158 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Have  faith,  have  faith!  We  live  by 
faith/  said  he ; 

4 And  all  things  work  together  for  the 
good 

Of  those  ’ — it  makes  me  sick  to  quote 
him  — last 

Gript  my  hand  hard,  and  with  God- 
bless-you  went. 

I stood  like  one  that  had  received  a 
blow  : 

I found  a hard  friend  in  his  loose  ac- 
counts, 

A loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his 
hand, 

A curse  in  his  God-bless-you  : then  my 
eyes 

Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far 
away, 

Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the 
crowd, 

Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back, 

And  scoundrel  in  the  supple-sliding 
knee.” 

“Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul?” 
said  the  good  wife  ; 

“So  are  we  all  : but  do  not  call  him, 
love, 

Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and 
proved,  forgive. 

His  gain  is  loss  ; for  he  that  wrongs 
his  friend 

Wrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears 
about 

A silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast, 

Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  him- 
self ‘ 

The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  con- 
demn’d : 

And  that  drags  down  his  life  : then 
comes  what  comes 

Hereafter  : and  he  meant,  he  said  he 
meant, 

Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant, 
you  well.” 

“‘With  all  his  conscience  and  one 

eye  askew  * — 

Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that 
you  may  learn 

A man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself, 


Too  often,  in  that  silent  court  of 
yours  — 

* With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 
askew, 

So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for 
true ; 

Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his 
heart  was  dry. 

Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round 
his  eye ; 

Who,  never  naming  God  except  for 
gain, 

So  never  took  that  useful  name  in 
vain, 

Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross 
his  tool, 

And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe 
and  fool; 

Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace 
he  forged, 

And  snake-like  slimed  his  victim  ere 
he  gorged ; 

And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o’er  the 
rest 

Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best, 
Dropping  the  too  rough  H in  Hell 
and  Heaven, 

To  spread  the  Word  by  which  him- 
self had  thriven.’ 

How  like  you  this  old  satire  ? ” 

“Nay,”  she  said, 
“ I loathe  it : he  had  never  kindly 
heart, 

Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind, 
Who  first  wrote  satire,  witli  no  pity 
in  it. 

But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I 
had  one 

That  altogether  went  to  music  1 Still 
It  awed  me.” 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream’d 
Of  that  same  coast. 

-—But  round  the  North,  a light, 
A belt,  it  seem’d,  of  luminous  vapor, 
lay, 

And  ever  in  it  a low  musical  note 
Swell’d  up  and  died;  and,  as  b 
I swell’d,  a ridge 


SEA  DREAMS. 


l:A 


Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and 
still 

Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when 
the  note 

Had  reach’d  a thunderous  fullness, 
on  those  cliffs 

Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the 
same  as  that 

Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she 
saw 

That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were 
cliffs  no  more, 

But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every 
age. 

Grave,  florid,  stern,  as  far  as  eye 
could  see, 

One  after  one:  and  then  the  great 
ridge  drew, 

Lessening  to  the  lessening  music, 
back, 

And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell’d 
again 

Slowly  to  music  : ever  when  it  broke 

The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder 
fell; 

Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of 
ruin  left 

Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters 
round, 

Some  crying,  “ Set  them  up  ! they  shall 
not  fall ! ” 

And  others,  “Let  them  lie,  for  they 
have  fall’n.” 

And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled : 
and  she  grieved 

In  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not 
why,  to  find 

Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of 
tune 

With  that  sweet  note;  and  ever  as 
their  shrieks 

lian  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great 
wave 

Returning,  while  none  mark’d  it,  on 
the  crowd 

Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light,  and 

1 show’d  their  eyes 

Glaring,  with  passionate  looks,  and 
swept  away 

Hie  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men 
of  stone, 

To  the  waste  deeps  together.  ! 


“Then  I fixt 

My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images, 
Both  crown’d  with  stars  and  high 
among  the  stars,  — 

The  Virgin  Mother  standing  with  her 
child 

High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  min- 
ster-fronts— 

Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  r. 
cry 

Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret’s 
and  I woke, 

And  my  dream  awed  me:  — well  — 
but  what  are  dreams  ? 

Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of 
a glass, 

And  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a 
child.” 

“ Child  ? No  ! ” said  he,  “ but  this 
tide’s  roar,  and  his, 

Our  Boanerges  with  his  threats  of 
doom, 

And  loud-lung’d  Antibabylonianisins 
(Altho  I grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream  : but 
if  there  were 

A music  harmonizing  our  wild  erie^, 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you 
dream’d  about, 

Why,  that  would  make  our  passions 
far  too  like 

The  discords  dear  to  the  musician 
No- 

One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the 
hymns  of  heaven  : 

True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl 
in  tune 

With  nothing  but  the  Devil ! ” 

“ ‘ True  ’ indeed  ) 
One  out  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an 
hour 

Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me 
on  the  shore ; 

While  you  were  running  down  the 
sands,  and  made 

The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-Lirbe- 
low  flap, 

Good  man,  to  please  the  child.  She 
brought  strange  news. 


160 


LUCRETIUS . 


Why  were  you  silent  when  I spoke 
to-night  ? 

I had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving 
him 

Before  you  knew.  We  must  forgive 
the  dead.” 

“ Dead  ! who  is  dead  ? ” 

“ The  man  your  eye  pursued. 

A little  after  you  had  parted  with 
him, 

He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart- 
disease.” 

“ Dead  ? he  ? of  heart-disease  ? what 
heart  had  he 

To  die  of  ? dead  ? ” 

“ Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 

A devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 

And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge 
him  with, 

His  angel  broke  his  heart.  But  your 
rough  voice 

(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the 
child  again. 

Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep ! will  she  not 
sleep 

Without  her  ‘ little  birdie 9 ? well  then, 
sleep, 

And  I will  sing  you,  4 birdie/  ” 

Saying  this, 

The  woman  half  turn’d  round  from 
him  she  loved, 

Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching 
thro’  the  night 

Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close 
beside) 

And  half-embraced  the  basket  cradle- 
head 

With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the 
pliant  bough 

That  moving  moves  the  nest  and 
nestling,  sway’d 

The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby 
song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 

In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 

Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 


Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 

Birdie,  rest  a little  longer, 

Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger 
So  she  rests  a little  longer. 

Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 

In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 

Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 

Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 

Baby,  sleep  a little  longer, 

Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a little  longer, 

Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

“She  sleeps : let  us  too,  let  all  evil, 
sleep. 

He  also  sleeps  — another  sleep  than 
ours. 

He  can  do  no  more  wrong:  forgive 
him,  dear, 

And  I shall  sleep  the  sounder ! ” 

Then  the  man, 
“ His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet 
to  come. 

Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night 
be  sound : 

I do  forgive  him ! ” 

“ Thanks,  my  love/’  she  said, 
“ Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,”  and 
« they  slept. 


LUCRETIUS. 

Lucilia,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 

Her  master  cold;  for  when  the  morn- 
ing flush 

Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had 
died 

Between  them,  tho’  he  lov’d  her  none 
the  less, 

Yet  often  when  the  woman  heard  his 
foot 

Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and 
ran 

To  greet  him  with  a kiss,  the  master 
took 

Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for  — hie 
mind 


LUCRETIUS. 


161 


Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argu- 
ment, 

Or  fancy,  borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 

And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter — he 
past 

To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hun- 
dred scrolls 

Left  by  the  Teacher,  whom  he  held 
divine. 

She  brook’d  it  not ; but  wrathful,  pet- 
ulant, 

Breaming  some  rival,  sought  and 
found  a witch 

Who  brew’d  the  philtre  which  had 
power,  they  said, 

To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 

And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with 
his  drink, 

And  this  destroy’d  him ; for  the  wicked 
broth 

Confused  the  chemic  labor  of  the 
blood, 

And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within 
the  man’s 

Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells, 
* and  check’d 

His  power  to  shape : he  loathed  him- 
self; and  once 

After  a tempest  woke  upon  a morn 

That  mock’d  him  with  returning  calm, 
and  cried : 


“ Storm  in  the  night ! for  thrice  I 
heard  the  rain 

Rushing;  and  once  the  flash  of  a 
thunderbolt  — 

Methought  I never  saw  so  fierce  a 
fork  — 

Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain- 
side, and  show’d 

A riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 

Blanching  and  billowing  in  a hollow 
of  it, 

Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty- 
dry. 


“ Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy 
Gods,  what  dreams  ! 

Tor  thrice  I waken’d  after  dreams. 
Perchance 

We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that 
come 


Just  ere  the  waking:  terrible!  for  it 
seem’d 

A void  was  made  in  Nature;  all  her 
bonds 

Crack’d ; and  I saw  the  flaring  atom- 
streams 

And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 
Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and 
make 

Another  and  another  frame  of  things 
For  ever:  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I 
knew  it  — 

Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 
With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot 
plies 

His  function  of  the  woodland : but  the 
next ! 

I thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla 
shed 

Came  driving  rainlike  down  again  on 
earth. 

And  where  it  dash’d  the  reddening 
meadow,  sprang 

No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean 
teeth, 

For  these  I thought  my  dream  would 
show  to  me, 

But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art, 
Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that 
made 

The  mulberry-faced  Dictator’s  orgies 
worse 

Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet 
Gods. 

And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell’d  and 
round  me  drove 

In  narrowing  circles  till  I yell’d  again 
Half-suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and 
saw  — 

Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest 
day? 

“ Then,  then,  from  utter  gloom  stood 
out  the  breasts, 

The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly 
a sword 

Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct, 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down 
shamed 

At  all  that  beauty;  and  as  I stared,  a 
fire, 


162 


LUCRETIUS. 


The  lire  that  left  a roofless  Ilion, 

Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch’d  me 
that  I woke. 

“ Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus, 
thine, 

Because  I would  not  one  of  thine  own 
doves, 

Not  ev’n  a rose,  were  offer’d  to  thee  ? 
thine, 

Forgetful  how  my  rich  procemion 
makes 

Thy  glory  fly  alo**&  the  Italian  field, 

In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity  ? 

“ Deity  ? nay,  thy  worshippers.  My 
tongue 

Trips,  or  I speak  profanely.  Which  of 
these 

Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at 
all? 

Not  if  thou  be’st  of  those  who,  far 
aloof 

From  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite 
and  scorn, 

Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  great- 
est fain 

Would  follow,  center’d  in  eternal  calm. 

“Nay,  if  thou  canst,  0 Goddess,  like 
ourselves 

Touch,  and  be  touch’d,  then  would  I 
cry  to  thee 

To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender 
arms 

Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the 
lust  of  blood 

That  makes  a steaming  slaughter- 
house of  Rome. 

“Ay,  but  I meant  not  thee  ; I meant 
not  her, 

Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to 
see 

Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers, 
and  tempt 

The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were 
abroad ; 

Nor  her  that  o’er  her  wounded  hunter 
wept 

Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous 
tears ; 


Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple  arbiter. 
Decided  fairest.  Rather,  O ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  — did  I take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow 
forth 

The  all-generating  powers  and  genial 
heat 

Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro’  the 
thick  blood 

Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs 
are  glad 

Nosing  the  mother’s  udder,  and  the 
bird 

Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze 
of  flowers : 

Which  things  appear  the  work  of 
mighty  Gods. 

“ The  Gods  ! and  if  I go,  my  work  is 
left 

Unfinish’d  — if  I go.  The  Gods,  who 
haunt 

The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and 
world,  f 

Where  never  creeps  a cloud,  or  moves 
a wind, 

Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of 
snow, 

Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to 
mar 

Their  sacred  everlasting  calm ! and 
such, 

Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a calm, 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may 
gain 

Letting  his  own  life  go.  The  Gods, 
the  Gods ! 

If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the 
Gods 

Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 

Not  follow  the  great  law  ? My  master 
held 

That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so 
believe. 

I prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and 
meant 

Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a train 
Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That  Gods  there  are,  and  deathless,  j 


UC RET  I US. 


163 


Meant  ? I meant  ? 

i have  forgotten  what  I meant : my 
mind 

Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are 
lamed. 

“ Look  where  another  of  our  Gods, 
the  Sun, 

Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 

All-seeing  Hyperion  — what  you 
will  — 

Has  mounted  yonder ; since  he  nev6r 
sware, 

Except  his  wrath  were  wreak’d  on 
wretched  man, 

That  he  would  only  shine  among  the 
dead 

Hereafter;  tales!  for  never  yet  on 
earth 

Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roast- 
ing ox 

Moan  round  the  spit  — nor  knows  he 
what  he  sees  ; 

King  of  the  East  altho’  he  seem,  and 
girt 

With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance, 
slowly  lifts 

His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled 
stairs 

That  climb  Into  the  windy  halls  of 
heaven 

And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new- 
born, 

And  gets  fo  greeting  but  a *vail  of 
pain  ■ 

And  here  he  stays  upon  a freezing 
orb 

That  fain  wouM  gaze  upon  him  to  the 
last ; 

And  here  upon  a yellow  eyelid  fall’ll 

And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a 
friend  in  vain, 

Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no 
more. 

And  me,  altho’  his  fire  is  on  my  face 

Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can 
tell 

Whether  I mean  this  day  to  end  my- 
self, 

Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 

That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit 
the  post 


Allotted  by  the  Gods:  but  he  that 
holds 

The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need 
he  care 

Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge 
at  once, 

Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight, 
and  sink 

Past  earthquake  — ay,  and  gout  and 
stone,  that  break 

Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death- 
in-life, 

And  wretched  age  — and  worst  disease 
of  all, 

These  prodigies  of  myriad  naked- 
nesses, 

And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeak- 
able, 

Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 

Not . welcome,  harpies  miring  every 
dish, 

The  phantom  husks  of  something 
foully  done, 

And  fleeting  thro’  the  boundless  uni- 
verse, 

And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my 
breast 

With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity? 

“How  should  the  mind,  except  it 
loved  them,  clasp 

These  idols  to  herself  7 or  do  they  fly 

Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like 
the  flakes 

In  a fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  per- 
force 

Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an 
hour 

Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and 
bear 

The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their 
rags  arid  they 

The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 

Where  sit  the  best  an  1 stateliest  of 
the  land  ? 

“ Can  I not  fling  this  horror  off  m£ 
again, 

Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Natuv? 
can  smile, 

Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  oi 
storm, 


1 64 


LUCRETIUS. 


At  random  ravage  ? and  how  easily 

The  mountain  there  has  cast  his 
cloudy  slough, 

Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenestair, 

A mountain  o'er  a mountain,  — ay, 
and  within 

All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of 
men  ? 

“ But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  gar- 
den snared 

Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods  1 a tale 

To  laugh  at — -more  to  laugh  at  in 
myself  — 

Nor  look ! what  is  it  ? there  ? yon 
arbutus 

Totters  ; a noiseless  riot  underneath 

Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the 
tops  quivering  — 

The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph 
and  Faun; 

And  here  an  Oread  — how  the  sun 
delights 

To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery 
sides, 

And  rosy  knees  and  supple  rounded- 
ness, 

And  budded  bosom-peaks  — who  this 
way  runs 

Before  the  rest  — A satyr,  a satyr,  see, 

Follows  ; but  him  I proved  impossible ; 

Twy-natured  is  no  nature : yet  he 
draws 

Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I scan  him 
now 

Beastlier,  than  any  phantom  of  his 
hind 

That  e^er  butted  his  rough  brother- 
brute 

For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender  : 

I hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him ; and 
she 

Loathes  him  as  well ; such  a precipi- 
tate heel, 

Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's 
ankle-wing, 

WhiAs  her  to  me  : but  will  she  fling 
herself, 

Shameless  upon  me  ? Catch  her, 
goat-foot : nay, 

Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled 
wilderness, 


And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide! 
do  I wish  — 

What  ? — that  the  bush  were  leafless  ? 
or  to  whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre  ? O ye 
Gods, 

I know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to 
you 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I 
call  — 

I thought  I lived  securely  as  your- 
selves — 

No  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey- 
spite, 

No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice, 
none : 

No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  er 
pine 

With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass, 
to  take 

Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly- 
warm, 

Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 

Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 

Of  settled,  sweet,  Epicurean  life. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  mon- 
ster lays 

His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my 
will, 

Wrenching  it  backward  into  his;  and 
spoils 

My  bliss  in  being ; and  it  was  not 
great ; 

For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in 
' rhythm. 

Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words. 

To  make  a truth  less  harsh,  I often 
grew 

Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life- — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an 
hour 

Crown'd  with  a flower  or  two,  and 
there  an  end  — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems 
to  fade, 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I find  my- 
self, 

Not  manlike  end  myself  ? — our  privi- 
lege — 

What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it  ? And 
what  man. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.  165 


What  Roman  would  be  dragg'd  in  tri- 
umph thus  ? 

Not  I;  not  he,  who  bears  one  name 
with  her 

Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless 
doom  of  kings, 

When,  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in 
her  veins, 

She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Col- 
latine 

And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltless 
air, 

Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in 
her  heart. 

And  from  it  sprang  the  Common- 
wealth, which  breaks 
As  I am  breaking  now  ! 

“ And  therefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb 
of  all, 

Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far 
apart 

Those  blind  beginnings  thathave  made 
me  man. 

Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Thro'  all  her  cycles  — into  man  once 
more, 

Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent 
flower : 

But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one 
day 

Cracks  all  to  pieces,  — and  that  hour 
perhaps 

Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a something  to 
himself, 

But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes 
and  fanes/ 

And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within 
the  grave, 

The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself 
shall  pass, 

Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and 
void, 

Into  the  unseen  for  ever, — till  that 
hour, 

My  golden  work  in  which  I told  a truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 
And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-snake, 
and  plucks 


The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal 
hell, 

Shall  stand : ay,  surely:  then  it  fails 
at  last 

And  perishes  as  I must ; for  O Thou, 

Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 

Yearn'd  after  by  the  wisest  of  the 
wise, 

Who  fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou 
art 

Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one 
pain, 

Howbeit  I know  thou  surely  must  be 
mine 

Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thuc 

I woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 

How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so 
they  win  — 

Thus  — thus  : the  soul  flies  out  and 
dies  in  the  air." 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into 
his  side : 

She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ; 
ran  in, 

Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon 
herself 

As  having  fail'd  in  duty  to  him, 
shriek'd 

That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back, 
fell  on  him, 

Clasp'd,  kiss'd  him,  wail'd : he  an- 
swer'd, “ Care  not  thou  ! 

Thy  duty?  What  is  duty?  Fare 
thee  well ! " 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

PUBLISHED  IN  1852. 


Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 

Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a 
mighty  nation, 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


166  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


IT. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom 
we  deplore  ? 

Here,  in  streaming  London’s  central 
roar. 

Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

hi. 

Lead  out  the  pageant : sad  and  slow, 
As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it 
grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music 
blow ; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV. 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the 
Past. 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he 
greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the 
street. 

O friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is 
mute : 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring 
blood, 

The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  res- 
olute, 

Whole  in  himself,  a common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influ- 
ence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
0 voice  from  which  their  omens  all 
men  drew, 

0 iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

0 fall’n  at  length  that  tower  of 
strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the 
winds  that  blew  ! 


Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o’er. 
The  great  World-victor’s  victor  will 
be  seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done : 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 
Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d  : 

And  a reverent  people  behold 
The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 
Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon’d 
deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d : 

And  a deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be 
knoll’d  ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  an- 
them roll’d 

Thro’  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 
And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his 
loss ; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a time  in  many  a clime 
His  captain’s-ear  has  heard  them 
boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom : 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices 
wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from 
shame ; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 
tain taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A man  of  well-attemper’d  frame. 

O civic  muse,  to  such  a name, 

To  such  a name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a name, 

Preserve  a broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 


ODE  ON  '1  HE  jjjzAIjci  OF  THE  DUKE  OE  WELLINGTON.  16, 


VI. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  hon- 
or’d guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with 
soldier  and  with  priest, 

With  a nation  weeping,  and  breaking 
on  my  rest  ? 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
W as  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou 
famous  man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world 
began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 
For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea; 

His  foes  were  thine ; he  kept  us  free ; 
O give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee ; 

For  this  is  England’s  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain’d  a hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  : 

This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clash’d  with  his  fiery  few  and  won  ; 
And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 
The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labor’d  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 
Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 
Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 
Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 
Till  o’er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 
Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow’d  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 
Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 
And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 
Such  a war  had  such  a close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheel’d  on  Europe-shadow- 
ing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 
Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty’s  iron 
crown 


On  that  loud  Sabbath  shook  the 
spoiler  down  ; 

A day  of  onsets  of  despair! 

Dash’d  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam’d  them 
selves  away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 
Thro’  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash’d  a sudden  jubilant  ray, 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and 
overthrew. 

So  great  a soldier  taught  us  there, 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world  earthquake,  Waterloo 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven 

. guilc’ 

O saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at 
all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 
thine  ! 

And  thro’  the  centuries  let  a people’s 
voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A people’s  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human 
fame, 

A people’s  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
Attest  their  great  commander’s  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to 
him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

VII. 

A people’s  voice  ! we  are  a people  yet. 
Tho’  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams 
forget, 

Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  law 
less  Powers ; 

Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and 
roughly  set 

His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming 
showers, 

We  have  a voice,  with  which  to  pay 
the  debt 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and 
regret 


168  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 


To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and 
kept  it  ours. 

And  keep  it  ours,  0 God,  from  brute 
control; 

0 Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye, 
the  soul 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England 
whole, 

And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  free- 
dom sown 

Betwixt  a people  and  their  ancient 
throne, 

That  sober  freedom  out  of  which 
there  springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate 
kings  ; 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  man- 
kind 

Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into 
dust, 

And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march 
of  mind, 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and 
crowns  be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  over- 
trust. 

Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts ; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 
wall ; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

For  ever ; and  whatever  tempests  lour 

For  ever  silent ; even  if  they  broke 

In  thunder,  silent ; yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man 
who  spoke ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the 
hour, 

Nor  palter’d  with  Eternal  God  for 
power ; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor 
flow 

Thro’  either  babbling  world  of  high 
and  low ; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language 
rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a foe  ; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one 
rebuke 

Ail  great  self-seekers  trampling  on 
the  right : 


Truth-teller  was  our  England’s  Alfred 
named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

VIII. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow’d  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open 
hands 

Lavish  Honor  shower’d  all  her  stars. 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her 
horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle 
bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island- 
story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory . 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and 
hands, 

Thro’  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light 
has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail’d, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty 
scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table- 
lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon 
and  sun. 

Such  was  he : his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  en- 
dure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  states- 
man pure : 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro’  all  human 
story 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY , 1852. 


169 


The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearts  he 
saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-illumined  cities 
flame, 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader’s  fame, 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to 
him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

IX. 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 
By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 
Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not 
see : 

Peace,  it  is  a day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung : 

O peace,  it  is  a day  of  pain 
For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart 
and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe 
hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain ! 

More  than  is  of  man’s  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere ; 

•We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a wise  humility 
As  befits  a solemn  fane : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music’s  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are 
we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so 
true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to 
do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho’  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the 
hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 
Tho’  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 
roll 


Round  us,  each  with  different  powers 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  '■ 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  on 
trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  t)  o 
people’s  ears : 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  arc- 
sobs  and  tears : 

The  black  earth  yawns  : the  mortal 
disappears; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 

He  is  gone  who  seem’d  so  great.  — 
Gone ; but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave 
him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY, 

1852. 

My  Lords,  we  heard  you  speak : you 
told  us  all 

That  England’s  honest  censure  went 
too  far ; 

That  our  free  press  should  cease  to 
brawl, 

Not  sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into 
war. 

It  was  our  ancient  privilege,  my  Lords, 

To  fling  whate’er  we  felt,  not  fearing, 
into  words. 

We  love  not  this  French  God,  the 
child  of  Hell, 

Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse 
of  the  wise ; 

But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so 
well, 

We  dare  notev’n  by  silence  sanction 
lies. 

It  might  be  safe  our  censures  to  with- 
draw ; 

And  yet,  my  Lords,  not  well : there  is 
a higher  law. 


170 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak 
free, 

Tho’  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on  us 
break ; 

No  little  German  state  are  we, 

But  the  one  voice  in  Europe : we 
must  speak ; 

That  if  to-night  our  greatness  were 
struck  dead, 

There  might  be  left  some  record  of 
the  things  we  said. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be 
bold. 

Our  Britain  cannot  salve  a tyrant 
o’er. 

Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll’d 

On  her  and  us  and  ours  for  evermore. 

What ! have  we  fought  for  Ereedom 
from  our  prime, 

At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a 
public  crime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him  ? our  own  we  never 
fear’d. 

From  our  first  Charles  by  force  we 
wrung  our  claims. 

Prick’d  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear’d, 

We  flung  the  burden  of  the  second 
James. 

I say,  we  never  feared ! and  as  for  these, 

We  broke  them  on  the  land,  we  drove 
them  on  the  seas. 

And  you,  my  Lords,  you  make  the 
people  muse 

In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons’ 
breed  — 

Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  tit 
Lewes  i 

Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Eunny- 
mede  ? 

O fall’n  nobility,  that,  overawed, 

Would  lisp  in  honey’d  whispers  of 
this  monstrous  fraud ! 

We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here 
were  sin, 

Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble 
hosts  — 

If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 


Have  left  the  last  free  race  with 
naked  coasts ! 

They  knew  the  precious  things  they 
had  to  guard : 

For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant 
one  hard  word. 

Tho’  niggard  throats  of  Manchester 
may  bawl, 

What  England  was,  shall  her  true 
sons  forget  ? 

We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 

But  some  love  England  and  her 
honor  yet. 

And  these  in  our  Thermopylae  shall 
stand, 

And  hold  against  the  world  this  honor 
of  the  land. 


THE  CHAEGE  OF  THE  LIGHT 
BBIGADE. 


Half  a league,  half  a league, 
Half  a league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Eode  the  six  hundred. 

“ Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns,”  he  said: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Eode  the  six  hundred. 

ii. 

“ P v/ard,  the  Light  Brigade ! ” 
Was  there  a man  dismay’d  ? 

Not  tho’  the  soldier  knew 
Some  one  had  blunder’d : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 

Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 

Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Eode  the  six  hundred. 

hi. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volley’d  and  thunder’d ; 
Storm’d  at  witli  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 


OPENING  OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL  EXHIBITION.  171 


Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

IV. 

Flash’d  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash’d  as  they  turn’d  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wonder’d  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro’  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel’d  from  the  sabre-stroke 
Shatter’d  and  sunder’d. 

Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

v. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  behind  them 
Volley’d  and  thunder’d ; 
Storm’d  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 

They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro’  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

VI. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 

O the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder’d. 

Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING 
OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION. 

i. 

Uplift  a thousand  voices  full  and 
sweet, 

In  this  wide  hall  with  earth’s  inven- 
tion stored, 

And  praise  the  invisible  universal 
Lord, 


Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  na- 
tions meet, 

Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor 
have  outpour’d 

Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our 
feet. 

ii. 

0 silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 
Mourn’d  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee, 
For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks 
to  thee ! 

hi. 

The  world-compelling  plan  was 
thine,  — 

And,  lo ! the  long  laborious  miles 
Of  Palace ; lo  ! the  giant  aisles. 

Rich  in  model  and  design ; 
Harvest-tool  and  husbandry, 

Loom  and  wheel  and  enginery, 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine, 
Fabric  rough,  or  fairy-fine, 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a feast 
Of  wonder,  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine ! 
All  of  beauty,  all  of  use, 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce, 
Brought  from  under  every  star, 
Blown  from  over  every  main, 

And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 
The  works  of  peace  with  works  of 
war. 

IV. 

Is  the  goal  so  far  away  ? 

Far,  how  far  no  tongue  can  say, 
Let  us  dream  our  dream  to-day. 

v. 

O ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who 
reign, 

From  growing  commerce  loose  her 
latest  chain, 

And  let  the  fair  white-wing’d  peace* 
maker  fly 

To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 
And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden 
hours  ; 

Till  each  man  find  his  own  in  all 
men’s  good, 


172 


A WELCOME  TO  MARIE  ALEXANDROVNA. 


And  all  men  work  in  noble  brother- 
hood, 

Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and 
armed  towers, 

And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature’s 
powers, 

And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  earth 
and  crown’d  with  all  her  flow- 
ers. 


A WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 

MARCH  7,  1863. 

Sea-ttxngs’  daughter  from  over  the 
sea,  Alexandra ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome 
of  thee  Alexandra ! 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of 
fleet ! 

Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the 
street ! 

Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and 
sweet, 

Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet ! 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flow- 
ers! 

Make  music,  O bird,  in  the  new-budded 
bowers ! 

Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and 
prayer ! 

Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is 
ours ! 

Warble,  O bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare ! 

Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and 
towers  ! 

Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare ! 

Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 

Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March 
air ! 

Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire ! 

Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and 
higher 

Melt  into  stars  for  the  land’s  desire ! 

Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 

Roll  as  a ground-swell  dash’d  on  the 
strand, 

Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the 
land, 

And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land’s 
desire. 


The  sea-kings’  daughter  as  happy  as 
fair. 

Blissful  bride  of  a blissful  heir, 

Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the 
sea  — 

O joy  to  the  people  and  joy  to  the 
throne, 

Come  to  us,  love  us  and  make  us  your 
own : 

For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 

Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be, 

We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome 
of  thee,  Alexandra ! 


A WELCOME  TO  HER  ROYAL 

HIGHNESS  MARIE  ALEX- 
ANDROVNA, DUCHESS  OF 

EDINBURGH. 

MARCH  7,  1874. 

I. 

The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove 
for  power  — 

Whose  will  is  lord  thro’  all  his 
world-domain  — 

Who  made  the  serf  a man,  and  burst 
his  chain  — 

Has  given  our  Prince  his  own  imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 

And  welcome,  Russian  flower,  a 
people’s  pride, 

To  Britain,  when  her  flowers  begin 
to  blow  ! 

From  love  to  love,  from  home  to 
home  you  go, 

From  mother  unto  mother,  stately 
bride, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 
ii. 

The  golden  news  along  the  steppes  is 
blown, 

And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents 
are  stirr’d  ; 

Elburz  and  all  the  Caucasus  have 
heard ; 

And  all  the  sultry  palms  of  India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


173 


riie  voices  of  our  universal  sea 
On  capes  of  Afric  as  on  cliffs  of 
Kent, 

The  Maoris  and  that  Isle  of  Conti- 
nent, 

^nd  loyal  pines  of  Canada  murmur 
thee, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 


hi. 

^air  empires  branching,  both,  in  lusty 
life ! — 

Yet  Harold’s  England  fell  to  Nor- 
man swords ; 

Yet  thine  own  land  has  bow’d  to 
Tartar  hordes 

ince  English  Harold  gave  its  throne 
a wife, 

Alexandrovna  ! 

or  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs 
that  swing, 

And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  and 
flow ; 

But  who  love  best  have  best  the 
grace  to  know 

'hat  Love  by  right  divine  is  deathless 
king, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 


IV. 

nd  Love  has  led  thee  to  the  stranger 
land, 


Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly 
say  their  say ; — 

See,  empire  upon  empire  smiles  to- 
day, 

As  thou  with  thy  young  lover  hand  in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 

So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  west. 

Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious 
to  thy  poor : 

Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  nar- 
row door  ; 

Here  also,  Marie,  shall  thy  name  be 
blest, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 
v. 

Shall  fears  and  jealous  hatreds  flame 
again  ? 

Or  at  thy  coming,  Princess,  every- 
where, 

The  blue  heaven  break,  and  some 
diviner  air 

Breathe  thro’  the  world  and  change 
the  hearts  of  men, 

Alexandrovna ! 

But  hearts  that  change  not,  love  that 
cannot  cease, 

And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace  of 
soul  in  soul ! 

And  howsoever  this  wild  world  may 
roll, 

Between  your  people’s  truth  and  man- 
ful peace, 

Alfred  — Alexandrovna ! 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


eldest-born>  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Anne  ? 

7 , wh^e>  and  str°ng  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a man. 

And  Willy  s wife  has  written  : she  never  was  over-wise 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy  : he  wouldn’t  take  my  advice! 

ii. 

I Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save, 

Hadn  t a head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty ! but  I was  against  it  for  one. 

Eh ! — but  he  wouldn’t  hear  me  — and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone, 


174 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


in. 

Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  the  flower  of  the  flock ; 

Never  a man  could  fling  him  : for  Willy  stood  like  a rock. 

“ Here’s  a leg  for  a babe  of  a week  ! ” says  doctor ; and  he  would  be  bound, 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 


IV. 

Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue ! 
I ought  to  have  gone  before  him : I wonder  he  went  so  young. 

I cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  : I have  not  long  to  stay ; 

Perhaps  I shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 


v. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie*  you  think  I am  hard  and  cold; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I am  so  old : 

I cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I weep  for  the  rest ; 

Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I could  have  wept  with  the  best. 


VI. 

For  I remember  a quarrel  I had  with  your  father,  my  dear. 

All  for  a slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a tear. 

I mean  your  grandfather,  Annie : it  cost  me  a world  of  woe. 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

VII. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time : I knew,  but  I would  not  tell. 

And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar ! 

But  the  tongue  is  a fire  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a fire. 

VIII. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise. 
That  a lie  which  is  half  a truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies, 

That  a lie  which  is  all  a lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright. 
But  a lie  which  is  part  a truth  is  a harder  matter  to  fight. 


IX. 

And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a week  and  a day ; 
And  all  things  look’d  half-dead,  tho’  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been  ! 

But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one’s  self  clean. 


x. 

And  I cried  myself  well-nigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 
I climb’d  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 
The  moon  like  a rick  on  fire  was  rising  over  the  dale, 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrupt  the  nightingale. 


THE  GRAND  MO  7HER. 


175 


XI. 

All  of  a sudden  he  stopt : there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 
Willy*  — l*e  didn't  see  me,  — and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 

Out  into  the  road  I started,  and  spoke  I scarce  knew  how ; 

Ah,  there’s  no  fool  like  the  old  one  — it  makes  me  angry  now. 


XII. 

Willy  stood  up  like  a man,  and  look’d  the  thing  that  lie  meant; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a mocking  curtsey  and  went. 

And  I said,  “Let  us  part : in  a hundred  years  it’ll  all  be  the  same. 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name.” 

XIII. 

And  he  turn  d,  and  I saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine: 

Sweetheart,  I love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 

And  what  do  I care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill; 

But  marry  me  out  of  hand : we  two  shall  be  happy  still.” 


XIV 

“Marry  you,  Willy!”  said  I,  “but  I needs  must  speak  my  mind, 

And  I fear  you’ll  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind.” 

But  he  turn’d  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer’d,  “ No,  love,  no  • 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 


xv. 

So  Willy  and  I were  wedded  : I wore  a lilac  gown ; 

And  the  ringers  rang  with  a will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I bare  was  dead  before  he  was  born, 

Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 

XVI. 

That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I thought  of  death. 

There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn  a breath. 

I had  not  wept,  little  Anne,  not  since  I had  been  a wife ; 

But  I wept  like  a child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 

XVII. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain : 

I look’d  at  the  still  little  body  — his  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

± or  Willy  I cannot  weep,  I shall  see  him  another  morn : 

But  I wept  like  a child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  bom 

XVIII. 

But  he  cheer  d me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay: 

Kind,  like  a man,  was  he ; like  a man,  too,  would  have  his  way : 

Never  jealous  not  he:  we  had  many  a happy  year; 

And  he  died,  and  I could  not  weep  — my  own  time  seem’d  so  near. 


176 


THE  GRANDMOTHER . 


xix. 

But  I wish’d  it  had  been  God’s  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have  died 
I began  to  be  tired  a little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 

And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I don’t  forget : 

But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they’re  all  about  me  yet. 

XX. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two, 

Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you: 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 

While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  hill. 


xxi. 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I hear  them  too  — they  sing  to  their  team; 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a pleasant  kind  of  a dream. 

They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed 
I am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I know  for  a truth,  there’s  none  of  them  left  alive; 

Por  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five : 

And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten; 

I knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they’re  elderly  men. 


XXIII. 

Por  mine  is  a time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I grieve ; 

I am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father’s  farm  at  eve  : 

And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I; 

I find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 

XXIV. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us -sad : 
But  mine  is  a time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had  ; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 


XXV. 

And  age  is  a time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain, 

And  happy  has  been  my  life ; but  I would  not  live  it  again. 

I seem  to  be  tired  a little,  that’s  all,  and  long  for  rest ; 

Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

XXVI. 

So  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  my  flov[eJ> 
But  how  can  I weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour,  ■ 
Gone  for  a minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next,  ^ 

I,  too,  shall  go  in  a minute.  What  time  have  I to  be  vext . 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


177 


XXVJI. 

And  Willy’s  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over-wise. 

Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  : thank  God  that  1 keep  my  eyes. 

I here  is  but  a trifle  left  you,  when  I shall  have  past  away. 

But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now : you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN  PARMER. 
OLD  STYLE. 


Wheer  ’asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin’  ’ere  aloan  ? 

Noorse  ? thoort  nowt  o’  a noorse  : whoy,  Doctor’s  abean  an’  agoan  : 
Says  that  I moant  ’a  naw  moor  aale  : but  I beant  a fool  : 

Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I beant  a-gooin’  to  break  my  rule. 


ii. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a says  w’hat’s  nawways  true : 

Naw  soort  o’  koind  o’  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a do. 

I’ve  ’ed  my  point  o’  aale  ivry  noight  sin’  I bean  ’ere, 

An’  Tve  ’ed  my  quart  ivry  markeVnoight  for  foorty  year. 

hi. 

Parson’s  a bean  loikewoise,  an’  a sittin’  ere  o’  my  bed. 

‘‘The  amoighty’s  a taakin  o’  you  to  ’issen,  my  friend,”  a said 
An  a towd  ma  my  sins,  an’s  toithe  were  due,  an’  I gied  it  in  hond  • 
I done  moy  duty  boy  ’urn,  as  I ’a  done  boy  the  lond. 

IV. 

Earn’d  a ma’  beii.  I reckons  I ’annot  sa  mooch  to  larn. 

But  a cast  oop,  thot  a did,  ’boot  Bessy  Marris’s  barne. 

Thaw  a knaws  I hallus  voated  wi’  Squoire  an’  ehoorch  an’  staate 
An  1 the  woost  o’  toimes  I wur  niver  agin  the  raate. 


An^  I hallus  coom’d  to  s choorch  afoor  moy  Sally  wur  dead, 

An^  eerd  ’um  a bummin’  awaay  loike  a buzzard-clock1  ower  my  ’ead 
An,  ~ lllver  knaw’d  whot  a mean’d  but  I thowt  a ’ad  summut  to  saay 
An  1 thowt  a said  whot  a owt  to  ’a  said  an’  I coom’d  awaay. 


VI. 

Bessy  Marris’s  barne ! tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea 
jVlowt  a bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a bad  un,  shea. 

Siver,  I kep  ’um,  I kep  ’um,  my  lass,  tha  mun  understand: 
I done  moy  duty  boy  ’um  as  I ’a  done  boy  the  lond. 


1 Cockchafer. 


178 


NORTHERN  FARMER . 


VII. 

But  Parson  a cooms  an’  a goos,  an’  a says  it  easy  an  freea  ^ 

“ The  amoighty’s  a taakin  o’  you  to  ’issen,  my  friend,  says  ea. 

I weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summum  said  it  m ’aaste : 

But  ’e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a weeiik,  an’  I ’a  stubb  d Thurnaby  waaste 

VIII. 

D’ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  7 naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then ; 
Theer  wur  a boggle  in  it,  I often  ’eerd  um  mysen  , 

Moast  loike  a butter-bump,1  fur  I ’eerd  ’um  aboot  an’  aboot, 

But  I stubb’d  ’um  oop  wi’  the  lot,  an’  raaved  an  rembled  um  oot. 

IX. 

Reaper’s  it  wur  ; fo’  they  fun  ’um  theer  a-laaid  of  ’is  fa'ace 
Doon  i’  the  woild  ’enemies  2 afoor  I coom’d  to  the  plaace. 

Noaks  or  Thimbleby  — toaner  ’ed  shot  ’um  as  dead  as  a naail. 

Noaks  wur  ’ang’d  for  it  oop  at  ’soize  — but  git  ma  my  aale. 


x. 

Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste:  theer  warn’t  not  feead  for  a cow; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an’  fuzz,  an’  loook  at  it  now  — 

Warnt  worth  nowt  a haacre,  an’  now  theer’s  lots  o feead, 
Pourscoor  yows  upon  it  an’  some  on  it  doon  i’  seead. 

XI. 

Nobbut  a bit  on  it’s  left,  an’  I mean’d  to  ’a  stubb’d  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I mean’d,  an’  runn’d  plow  thruff  it  an  all, 

If  godamoighty  an’  parson  ’ud  nobbut  let  me  aloan 

Mea,  wi’  haate  oonderd  haacre  o’  Squoire’s  an  lond  o my  oan 


Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a’s  doing  a-taakin’  o meal 
I beant  wonn  as  saws  ’ere  a bean  an’  yonder  a pea ; 

An’  Squoire  ’ull  be  sa  mad  an’  all  — a’ dear  a dear. 
And  I ’a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michaelmas  thutty 


year 


xm. 


A mowt  ’a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  ’ant  nor  a ’aapoth  o sense, 

Or  a mowt  ’a  taaen  young  Robins  — a niver  mended  a fence : 

But  godamoighty  a moost  taake  mea  an  taake  ma  now 
Wi’  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an’  Thurnaby  hoalms  to  plow  . 

XIV. 

Loook  ’ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  seeas  ma  a passin’  boy, 

Says  to  thessen  naw  doubt  “what  a man  a bea  sewer-loy.  # 

Fur  they  knaws  what  I bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a coom  d to  the  AIL, 
I done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an’  I done  moy  duty  boy  hall. 


1 Bittern. 


2 Anemones. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


179 


xv. 

Squoire’s  i’  Lunnon,  an’  summun  I reckons  ’ull  ’a  to  wroite, 
For  whoa’s  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles  ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I bea,  thot  a weant  niver  give  it  to  Joanes, 

Naw,  nor  a moant  to  Robins  — a niver  rembles  the  stoans. 


XVL 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi’  "is  kittle  o’  ste&m 
Huzzin’  an"  maazin  the  blessed  fealds  wi’  the  Divil’s  oan  team. 
Sin’  I mun  doy  I mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they  says  is  sweet, 

But  sin’  I mun  doy  I mun  doy,  for  I couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

XVII. 

What  atta  stannin’  theer  fur,  an’  doesn  bring  ma  the  aale  ? 
Doctor’s  a ’toattler,  lass,  an  a’s  hallus  i’  the  owd  taale ; 

I weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a knaws  naw  moor  nor  a floy ; 
Git  ma  my  aale  I tell  tha,  an’  if  I mun  doy  I mun  doy. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 
NEW  STYLE. 


Dosn’t  thou  ’ear  my  ’erse’s  legs,  as  they  canters  awaay  ? 

Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  — that’s  what  I ’ears  ’em  saay. 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  — Sam,  thou’s  an  ass  for  thy  paai'ns: 
Theer  s moor  sense  i’  one  o’  ’is  legs  nor  in  all  thy  braains. 


ii. 

Wo5^  theer  s a craw  to  pluck  wi’  tha,  Sam  : yon’s  parson’s  ’ouse  — - 
Dosn  t thou  knaw  that  a man  mun  be  eather  a man  or  a mouse  ? 

Time  to  think  on  it  then ; for  thou’ll  be  twenty  to  weeak.1 
Proputty,  proputty  — woa  then  woa — let  ma  ’ear  mysen  speak. 

in. 

Me  an’  thy  muther,  Sammy,  ’as  bean  a-talkin’  o’  thee ; 

Thou’s  bean  talkin’  to  muther,  an’  she  bean  a teLin’  it  me. 

Thou’ll  not  marry  for  munny—  thou’s  sweet  upo’  parson’s  lass  — 

Noa  —thou’ll  marry  for  luw  — an’  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 


IV. 

Seed’d  her  todaay  goa  by  — Saaint’s  daay  — they  was  ringing  the  bells 
ohe  s a beauty  thou  thinks  — an’  soa  is  scoors  o’  gells, 

Them  as  ’as  munny  an’  all  — wot’s  a beauty  ? — the  flower  as  blaws. 
But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an’  proputty,  proputty  graws. 

1 This  week. 


180 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


v. 

Do'ant  be  stunt : 1 taake  time  : I knaws  what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysen  when  I wur  a lad  ? 

But  I knaw’d  a Quaaker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this : 

“ Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa  wheer  munny  is ! ” 

VI. 

An’  I went  wheer  munny  war:  an’  thy  muther  coom  to  'and, 

Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laaid  by,  an'  a nicetish  bit  o’  land. 

Maaybe  she  warn't  a beauty  — I niver  giv  it  a thowt  — 

But  warn’t  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss  as  a lass  as  'ant  nowt  ? 

VII. 

Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a  nowt  when  ’e’s  dead, 

Mun  be  a guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  addle  2 her  bread  : 

Why  ? fur  'e's  nobbut  a curate,  an'  weant  niver  git  naw  'igher ; 

An’  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor  'e  coom’d  to  the  shire. 

VIII. 

An  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi’  tots  o'  Varsity  debt, 

Stook  to  his  taa’il  they  did,  an'  'e  ’ant  got  shut  on  ’em  yet. 

An'  'e  ligs  on  ’is  back  i’  the  grip,  wi'  noan  to  lend  ’im  a shove, 
Woorse  nor  a far-welter’d  3 yowe : fur,  Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luvv. 

IX. 

Luvv  ? what's  luvv  ? thou  can  luvv  thy  lass  an'  'er  munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they’ve  good  right  to  do. 

Could’n  I luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o'  'er  munny  laaid  by  ? 

Naay  — fur  I luvv’d  ’er  a vast  sight  moor  fur  it : reason  why. 


Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 

Cooms  of  a gentleman  burn : an’  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha  ? — an  ass  as  near  as  mays  nowt4  — 

„ Woa  then,  wiltha  % dangtha  ! — the  bees  is  as  fell  as  owt.5 

XI. 

Break  me  a bit  o’  the  esh  for  his  'ead,  lad,  out  o'  the  fence! 
Gentleman  burn ! what’s  gentleman  burn  1 is  it  shillins  an  pence  ? 
Proputty,  proputty’s  ivry thing  ’ere,  an’,  Sammy,  I’m  blest 
If  it  isn’t  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  ’as  it’s  the  best. 

XII. 

Tis’n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into  'ouses  an’  steals, 

Them  as  ’as  coats  to  their  backs  an’  taakes  their  regular  meals. 
No&,  but  it's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a meal’s  to  be  ’ad. 

Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a loomp  is  bad. 

1 Obstinate.  2 Earn.  . . 

3 Or  fow- welter’d,  — said  of  a sheep  lying  on  its  back  in  the  furrow. 

* Makes  nothing.  5 The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


THE  DAISY. 


181 


XIII. 

Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  ’a  bean  a laazy  lot, 

Fur  work  mun  ’a  gone  to  the  gittin’  whiniver  munny  was  got. 
Feyther  ’ad  ammost  nowt ; leastways  ’is  munny  was  ’id. 

But  ’e  tued  an’  moil’d  ’issen  dead,  an  ’e  died  a good  un,  ’e  did. 

XIV. 

Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck  cooms  out  by  the  ’ill 
Feyther  run  oop  to  the  farm,  an’  I runs  oop  to  the  mill; 

An’  I’ll  run  oop  to  the  brig,  an’  that  thou’ll  live  to  see ; 

And  if  thou  marries  a good  un  I’ll  leave  the  land  to  thee. 

xv. 

Thim’s  my  no&tions,  Sammy,  wheerby  I means  to  stick ; 

But  if  thou  marries  a bad  un,  I’ll  leave  the  land  to  Dick.  — 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  — that’s  what  I ’ears  ’im  sally  — 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  — canter  an’  canter  awaay 


THE  DAISY. 

WRITTEN  AT  EDINBURGH. 

O love,  what  hours  were  thine  and 
mine, 

In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show’d 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road  ; 

How  like  a gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow’d. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 
To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 
By  bays,  the  peacock’s  neck  in  hue ; 
Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy 
beaches 

A milky-bell’d  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem’d  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain 

, now,  from  a purple  cove, 


And  steering 


Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean’s  rim; 
Till,  in  a narrow  street  and  dim, 

I stay’d  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most. 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast ; 

But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 

A moulder’d  citadel  on  the  coast, 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A light  amid  its  olives  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean  ; 

Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flush’d  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho’  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A princely  people’s  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 

In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Casting 
Or  walks  in  Boboli’s  ducal  bowers. 


182 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  Dr  MAURICE . 


In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  com- 
plete, 

Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter’d, 
Thro’  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma  ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look’d  the  Lombard  piles ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0 Milan,  0 the  chanting  quires, 

The  giant  windows’  blazon’d  fires, 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom, 
the  glory ! 

A mount  of  marble,  a hundred  spires ! 

1 climb’d  the  roofs  at  break  of  day  ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flush’d,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 
A thousand  shadowy-pencill’d  val- 
leys 

And  snowy  dells  in  a golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como  ; shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded ; and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 
The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 

As  on  The  Lariano  crept 
To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch’d  awake 
A cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 
The  moonlight  touching  o’er  a 
terrace 

One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 


What  more  ? we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew, 

But  ere  we  reach’d  the  highest 
summit 

I pluck’d  a daisy,  I gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 

And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea; 

So  dear  a life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I found,  tho’  crush’d  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nursling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by : 

And  I forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and 
Earth, 

The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a vacant  brain, 
Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  be- 
side me, 

My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO  THE  REY.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 
JANUARY,  1854. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
Godfather,  come  and  see  your  boy  : 

Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter, 
Making  the  little  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few, 

Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due, 
Should  eighty-thousand  college- 
councils 

Thunder  “ Anathema,”  friend,  at  you  ; 

Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right, 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you 
welcome 

(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight; 


WILL. 


183 


Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of 
town, 

I watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 
All  round  a careless-order’d  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a noble  down. 

You’ll  have  no  scandal  w'hile  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine, 
And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a roof  of  pine  : 

For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 

To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand  ; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a billow  on  chalk  and  sand ; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep, 

And  on  thro’  zones  of  light  and 
shadow 

Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep, 

We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a selfish  war  begin  ; 
Dispute  the  claims,  arrange  the 
chances ; 

Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win : 

Or  whether  war’s  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood ; 

Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer 
matters, 

Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God ; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store, 
How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor ; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances, 
Yalor  and  charity  more  and  more. 

2ome,  Maurice,  come : the  lawn  as  yet 
's  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet ; 

But  when  the  wreath  of  March  has 
blossom’d, 

Orocus,  anemone,  violet, 

)r  later,  pay  one  visit  here, 

?or  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear ; 
Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for 
many, 

dany  and  many  a happy  year. 


WILL. 

i. 

0 well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong! 

He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long; 

He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer 
wrong  : 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world’s 
random  mock, 

Nor  all  Calamity’s  hugest  waves  con- 
found, 

Who  seems  a promontory  of  rock, 

That,  compass’d  round  with  turbulent 
sound, 

In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging 
shock, 

Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown’d. 

ii. 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not 
with  time, 

Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven- 
descended  Will, 

And  ever  weaker  grows  thro’  acted 
crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps 
halt, 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 

And  o’er  a weary  sultry  land, 

Far  beneath  a blazing  vault, 

Sown  in  a wrinkle  in  the  monstrous 
hill, 

The  city  sparkles  like  a grain  of  salt. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF 
CAUTERETZ. 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that 
flashest  white, 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepen- 
ing of  the  night, 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters 
flow, 

I walk’d  with  one  I loved  two  and 
thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley,  while  I walk’d 
to-day, 


184 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  SWAINSTON. 


The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a mist 
that  rolls  away  ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy 
rocky  bed, 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the 
voice  of  the  dead, 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and 
cave  and  tree, 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a living 
voice  to  me. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT 
SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales  warbled  without, 
Within  was  weeping  for  thee  : 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men 
Walk’d  in  the  walks  with  me, 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men  and 
thou  wast  one  of  the  three. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods  : 

The  Master  was  far  away : 
Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 
Of  a passion  that  lasts  but  a day ; 
Still  in  the  house  in  his  coffin  the 
Prince  of  courtesy  lay. 

Two  dead  men  have  I known 
In  courtesy  like  to  thee : 

Two  dead  men  have  I loved 
With  a love  that  ever  will  be: 
Three  dead  men  have  I loved,  and 
thou  art  last  of  the  three. 


THE  FLOWER. 

Once  in  a golden  hour 
I cast  to  earth  a seed. 

Up  there  came  a flower, 

The  people  said,  a weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro’  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a crown  of  light, 

But  thieves  from  o’er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 


Sow’d  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 
Till  all  the  people  cried, 

“ Splendid  is  the  flower.” 

Read  my  little  fable  : 

He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough, 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 
And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 
Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly, 
slowly  glides. 

It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer  she,  but  ah  how  soon  to 
die ! 

Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour 
may  cease. 

Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 
To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o’er  the  seething  harbor-bar, 

And  reach’d  the  ship  and  caught  the 
rope, 

And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

“O  boy,  tho’  thou  art  young  and 
proud, 

I see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

“ The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 
And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall 
play.” 


THE  ISLET. 


185 


“ Fool,"  he  answer’d,  “ death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that 
roam, 

But  I will  nevermore  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

“ My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 
My  sisters  crying,  ‘ Stay  for  shame ; ’ 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck, 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all 
to  blame. 

“ God  help  me ! save  I take  my  part 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me.” 


THE  ISLET. 

“Whither,  O whither,  love,  shall  we 
go, 

For  a score  of  sweet  little  summers  or 
so?” 

The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said, 
On  the  day  that  follow’d  the  day  she 
was  wed, 

“ Whither,  O whither,  love,  shall  we 
go?” 

And  the  singer  shaking  his  curl y head 
Turn’d  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a sudden  crash. 
Singing,  “ And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor 
rash, 

But  a bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek’d, 
In  a shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak’d, 
With  a satin  sail  of  a ruby  glow, 

To  a sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I 
know, 

A mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak’d; 
Waves  on  a diamond  shingle  dash, 
Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Pairily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 
\nd  overstream’d  and  silvery-streak’d 
With  many  a rivulet  high  against  the 
Sun 

The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain 
flash 

\.bove  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine.” 


“ Thither,  0 thither,  love,  let  us  go.” 

“No,  no,  no! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear, 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a musical 
throat, 

And  his  compass  is  but  of  a single 
note, 

That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear.” 

Mock  me  not!  mock  me  not!  love, 
let  us  go.” 

“ No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom 
on  the  tree, 

And  a storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely 
sea, 

And  a worm  is  there  in  the  lonely 
wood. 

That  pierces  the  liver  and  blacken? 
the  blood  ; 

And  makes  it  a sorrow  to  be.” 


CHILD-SONGS. 

i. 

THE  CITY  CHILD. 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would 
you  wander  ? 

Whither  from  this  pretty  home,  the 
home  where  mother  dwells  ? 

“ Far  and  far  away,”  said  the  dainty 
little  maiden, 

“All  among  the  gardens,  auriculas, 
anemones, 

Roses  and  lilies  and  Canterbury- 
bells.” 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would 
you  wander  ? 

Whither  from  this  pretty  house, 
this  city-house  of  ours  ? 

“ Far  and  far  away,”  said  the  dainty 
little  maiden, 

“ All  among  the  meadows,  the  clover 
and  the  clematis, 

Daisies  and  kingcups  and  honey- 
suckle-flowers.” 


186 


MINNIE  AND  WINNIE. 


ii. 

MINNIE  AND  WINNIE, 

Minnie  and  Winnie 
Slept  in  a shell. 

Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

And  they  slept  well. 

Pink  was  the  shell  within. 
Silver  without; 

Sounds  of  the  grea*  sea 
Wander’d  about. 

Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

Wake  not  soon ! 

Echo  on  echo 
Dies  to  the  moon. 

Two  bright  stars 

Peep’d  into  the  shell. 

“ What  are  they  dreaming  of  ? 
Who  can  tell  ? ” 

Started  a green  linnet 
Out  of  the  croft; 

Wake,  little  ladies, 

The  sun  is  aloft ! 


THE  SPITEFUL  LETTER, 

Here,  it  is  here,  the  close  of  the  year. 
And  with  it  a spiteful  letter. 

My  name  in  song  has  done  him  much 
wrong, 

For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0 little  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard, 

If  men  neglect  your  pages  * 

1 think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine, 
I hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

Rhymes  and  rhymes  in  the  range  of 
the  times ! 

Are  mine  for  the  moment  stronger'? 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot, 

I last  but  a moment  longer. 

This  faded  leaf,  our  names  are  as 
brief ; 

What  room  is  left  for  a hater  'i 


| Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener 
leaf, 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I — is  that  your  cry  ? 

And  men  will  live  to  see  it. 

W ell  — if  it  be  so  — so  it  is,  you  know ; 
And  if  it  be  so,  so  be  it. 

Brief,  brief  is  a summer  leaf, 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 

O hollies  and  ivies  and  evergreens, 
How  I hate  the  spites  and  the 
follies ! 


LITERARY  SQUABBLES. 

Ah  God!  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme 
That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pigmy  wars 

Before  the  stony  face  of  Time, 

And  look’d  at  by  the  silent  stars : 

Who  hate  each  other  for  a song, 

And  do  their  little  best  to  bite 

And  pinch  their  brethren  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite : 

And  strain  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  cannot 
hear 

The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  doom 

On  them  and  theirs  and  all  things 
here  : 

When  one  small  touch  of  Charity 
Could  lift  them  nearer  God-like  state 

Than  if  the  crowned  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  who  cried  Diana  great : 

And  I too,  talk,  and  lose  the  touch 
I talk  of.  Surely,  after  all, 

The  noblest  answer  unto  such 

Is  perfect  stillness  when  they  brawl. 


THE  VICTIM. 


A plague  upon  the  people  fell, 

A famine  after  laid  them  low, 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire. 


THE  VICTIM. 


187 


For  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe ; 
So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried, 

“ The  Gods  are  moved  against  the 
land.” 

The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a hand: 

“ Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife  ! 

What  would  you  have  of  us  ? 
Human  life  ? 

Were  it  our  nearest, 

Were  it  our  dearest, 

(Answer,  O answer) 

We  give  you  his  life.” 

ii. 

But  still  the  foeman  spoil’d  and  burn’d, 
And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood, 
And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn’d 
And  whiten’d  all  the  rolling  flood; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way, 
Or  down  in  a furrow  scathed  with 
flame : 

And  ever  and  aye  the  Priesthood 
moan’d, 

Till  at  last  it  seem’d  that  an  answer 
came. 

“ The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife  ; 

Take  you  his  dearest, 

Give  us  a life.” 

hi. 

The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild  ; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still  ; 

^ She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old, 
His  beauty  still  with  his  years  in- 
creased, 

His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold, 
He  seem’d  a victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  Priest  beheld  him, 

And  cried  with  joy, 

“The  Gods  have  answer’d  : 

We  give  them  the  boy.” 

IV. 

The  King  return’d  from  out  the  wild, 
He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand ; 


The  mother  said,  “They  have  taken 
the  child 

To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the 
land : 

The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased, 
And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the 
lea  : 

The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased, 
So  I pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 
They  have  taken  our  son, 

They  will  have  his  life. 

Is  he  your  dearest  ? 

Or  I,  the  wife  ? ” 

v. 

The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on 
brow, 

He  stay’d  his  arms  upon  his  knee  : 

“ O wife,  what  use  to  answer  now  ? 

For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for 
me.” 

The  King  was  shaken  with  holy 
fear ; 

“ The  Gods,”  he  said,  “ would  have 
chosen  well ; 

Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear, 
And  which  the  dearest  I cannot  tell  1” 
But  the  Priest  was  happy, 

His  victim  wen : 

“ We  have  his  dearest, 

His  only  son ! ” 

VI. 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared, 
The  knife  uprising  toward  the 
blow 

To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

“ Me,  not  my  darling,  no  ! ” 

He  caught  her  away  with  a sudden 
cry; 

Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife, 
And  shrieking  “ I am  his  dearest,  I — 

/ am  his  dearest ! ” rush’d  on  the 
knife. 

And  the  Priest  was  happy, 

“ 0,  Father  Odin, 

We  give  you  a life. 

Which  was  his  nearest  ? 

Who  was  his  dearest  ? 

The  Gods  have  answer’d ; 

We  give  them  the  wife!” 


188 


WAGES. 


WAGES. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 

Paid  with  a voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an  endless  sea  — 

Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the  wrong  — 

Nay,  but  she  aim’d  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory  she : 

Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death : if  the  wages  of  Virtue  be  dust, 

Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the  worm  and  the  fly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of  the  just, 

To  rest  in  a golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a summer  sky : 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains — 
Are  not  these,  O Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ? tho’  He  be  not  that  which  He  seems  ? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  limb, 

Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from  Him  ? 


Dark  is  the  world  to  thee : thyself  art  the  reason  why ; 

Eor  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel  “ I am  I ” ? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee ; and  thou  fulfillest  thy  doom 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a stifled  splendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet— ■ 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 


God  is  law,  say  the  wise ; O Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 

For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some : no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool ; 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a straight  staff  bent  in  a pool ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man  cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision  — were  it  not  He  ? 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK. 


i. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  over  summit  and  lawn, 

The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn ! 


n. 

All  night  have  I heard  the  voice 
Rave  over  the  rocky  bar, 

But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven. 
Above  thee  glided  the  star. 


A DEDICATION, \ 


189 


hi. 

Hast  thou  no  voice,  O Peak, 
That  standest  high  above  all  ? 
“ I am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 

I roar  and  rave  for  I fall. 


IV. 

“ A thousand  voices  go 

To  North,  South,  East,  and  West; 
They  leave  the  heights  and  are 
troubled, 

And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 


v. 

“ The  fields  are  fair  beside  them, 

The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom ; 
But  they  — they  feel  the  desire  of  the 
deep  — 

Fall,  and  follow  their  doom, 

VI. 

“ The  deep  has  power  on  the  height, 
And  the  height  has  power  on  the 
deep  ; 

They  are  raised  for  ever  and  ever. 
And  sink  again  into  sleep.” 

VII. 

Not  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 

But  when  their  cycle  is  o’er, 

The  valley,  the  voice,  ttue  peak,  the 
star 

Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 

VIII. 

The  Peak  is  high  and  flush’d 
At  his  highest  with  sunrise  fire ; 
The  Peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are 
high, 

And  the  thought  of  a man  is  higher. 

IX. 

A deep  below  the  deep, 

And  a height  beyond  the  height ! 
Our  hearing  is  not  hearing, 

And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 


x. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  into  heaven  withdrawn, 

The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn ! 


Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my 
hand, 

Little  flower  — but  if  I could  under- 
stand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in 
all, 

I should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


A DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near  and  true  — no  truer  Time 
himself 

Can  prove  you,  tho’  he  make  you  ever- 
more 

Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of 
life 

Shoots  to  the  fall  — take  this  and  pray 
that  he 

Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet 
faith  in  him, 

May  trust  himself ; and  after  praise 
and  scorn, 

As  one  who  feels  the  immeasurable 
world, 

Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the 
wise ; 

And  after  Autumn  past  — if  left  to 
pass 

His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless 
days  — 

Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  long- 
est night, 

Wearing  his  wisdom  lightly,  like  the 
fruit 

Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks 
a flower.1 

1 The  fruit  of  the  Spindle-tr-*.  (JEu&nf 

mus  Europeans), 


190 


BO  AD  ICE  A. 


EXPERIMENTS. 

BOADICEA. 

While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and  Druidess, 
Far  in  the  East  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 

Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce  volubility, 

Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Camulodune, 
Yell’d  and  shriek’d  between  her  daughters  o’er  a wild  confederacy. 


“ They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain’s  barbarous  populaces, 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating  ? 
Shall  I heed  them  in  their  anguish  ? shall  I brook  to  be  supplicated  ? 
Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 

Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle’s  beak  and  talon  annihilate  us  ? 

Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering? 

Bark  an  answer,  Britain’s  raven  ! bark  and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcase  a skeleton, 

Kite  and  kestrel*,  wolf  and  wolfkin,  from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 

Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten’d,  Taranis  be  propitiated. 

Lo  their  colony  half-defended!  low  their  colony,  Camulodune  ! 

There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a barbarous  adversary. 
There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a gluttonous  emperor-idiot. 

Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity  : hear  it,  Spirit  of  Cassivelaun  ! 


“ Hear  it,  Gods ! the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O Icenian,  0 Coritanian  ! 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer’d,  Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 

These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances, 

Thunder,  a flying  fire  in  heaven,  a murmur  heard  aerially, 

Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred, 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 

Bloodily  flow’d  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  men  ; 
Then  a phantom  colony  smoulder’d  on  the  refluent  estuary  ; 

Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering  — 

There  was  one  who  watch’d  and  told  me  — down  their  statue  of  Victory  fell 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune, 

Shall  we  teach  it  a Roman  lesson  ? shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful  ? 

Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant  ? shall  we  dandle  it  amorously  ? 


“ Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 

While  I roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating, 

There  I heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at  the  mystical  ceremony, 

Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible  prophetesses, 

* Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets  ! 

Tho’  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho’  the  gathering  enemy  narrow  thee, 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet ! 


BO  Ad  ICE  A. 


191 


Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  be  celebrated, 

Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable, 

Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming  Paradises, 

Thirty  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God/ 
So  they  chanted  : how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happier? 

So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a victory  now. 

Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 

Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liberty, 

Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash’d  and  humiliated, 

Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruffian  violators ! 

See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy ! 

Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 

Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune ! 

There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flourishing  territory 

Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness * 

Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 

Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian,  Trinobant, 

Pill  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 

Like  the  leaf  in  a roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in  a hurricane  whirl’d 

Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Cunobeline  ! 

There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay, 

Rolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 

There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted  ; there —there  — they  dwell  no  more 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces,  break  the  works  of  the  statuary 
lake  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it  abominable, 

Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  voluptuousness, 

Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lash’d  and  humiliated, 

Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  out, 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample  them  under  us.” 

So  the  Queen  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 

Brandishing  in  her  hand  a dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-like, 

Pell  d and  shriek’d  between  her  daughters  in  her  fierce  volubility, 
iili  her  people  all  around  the  royal  chariot  agitated, 

Madly  dash’d  the  darts  together,  writhing  barbarous  lineaments, 

Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  they  shiver  in  January, 

Roar  d as  when  the  roaring  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  precipices 

Pell  d as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a promontory. 

feo  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 

Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat  with  rapid  unanimous  hand, 

1 hought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all  her  pitiless  avarice, 

I ill  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and  flutter  tremulously, 

1 hen  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  fainted  away. 

Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 

Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 

Berish  a many  a maid  and  matron,  many  a valorous  legionary 
Pell  the  colony,  city,  and  citadel,  London,  Verulam,  Camuloddne. 


192 


TRANSLA  TION  OF  THE  ILIAD. 


IN  QUANTITY. 

ON  TRANSLATIONS  OF  HOMER 

Hexameters  and  Pentameters. 

These  lame  hexameters  the  strong-wing’d  music  of  Homer ! 

No  — but  a most  burlesque  barbarous  experiment. 

When  was  a harsher  sound  ever  heard,  ye  Muses,  in  England  ? 

When  did  a frog  coarser  croak  upon  our  Helicon  ? 
Hexameters  no  worse  than  daring  Germany  gave  us, 
Barbarous  experiment,  barbarous  hexameters. 


MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

O mighty-mouth’d  inventor  of  har- 
monies, 

O skill’d  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 

God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a name  to  resound  for 
ages  ; 

Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr’d  from  Jehovah’s  gorgeous  ar- 
mories, 

Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  on- 
set— 

Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmur- 
ing, 

And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o’er  a rich  ambrosial  ocean 
isle, 

And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm- 
woods 

Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of 
even. 

Hendecasyllabics . 

O you  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers, 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers, 
Look,  I come  to  the  test,  a tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  a metre  of  Catullus 
All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly 
bears  him, 

Lest  I fall  unawares  before  the  people, 


Waking  laughter  in  indolent  re- 
viewers. 

Should  I flounder  awhile  without  a 
tumble 

Thro’  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 

They  should  speak  to  me  not  without 
a welcome, 

All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 

Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to 
tumble, 

So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 

Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor 
believe  me 

Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers,  j 

O blatant  Magazines,  regard  me 
rather  — 

Since  I blush  to  belaud  myself  a mo- 
ment — 

As  some  rare  little  rose,  a piece  of  in- 
most 

Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 

Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A TRANSLA- 
TION OF  THE  ILIAD  IN 
BLANK  VERSE. 

So  Hector  spake ; the  Trojans  roar’d 
applause ; 

Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses 
from  the  yoke, 

And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his 
own ; 

And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly 
sheep 


THE  WINDOW . 


193 


In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted 
wine 

And  bread  from  out  the  houses 
brought,  and  heap’d 

riieir  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off 
the  plain 

Roll’d  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the 
heaven. 

And  these  all  night  upon  the  bridge1 
of  war 

$at  glorying ; many  a fire  before  them 
blazed : 

As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the 
moon 

Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are 
laid, 

\nd  every  height  comes  out,  and  jut- 
ting peak 

1 Or  ridge. 


And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable 
heavens 

Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all 
the  stars 

Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in 
his  heart : 

So  many  a fire  between  the  ships  and 
stream 

Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers 
of  Troy, 

A thousand  on  the  plain;  and  close 
by  each 

Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning 
fire ; 

And  eating  hoary  grain  and  pulse  the 
steeds, 

Fixt  by  their  cars,  waited  the  golden 
dawn.  Iliad  viii.  542-561. 


THE  WINDOW; 


OR,  THE  SONG  OF  THE  WRENS. 

Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a little  song-cycle,  German  fashion,  for 
im  to  exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  son.gs  as  “ Or- 
heus  with  his  lute,”  and  I drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the  old  style,  a puppet,  whose  almost 
nly  merit  is,  perhaps,  that  it  can  dance  to  Mr.  Sullivan’s  instrument.  I am  sorry  that  my 
our-year-old  puppet  should  have  to  dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days;  but  the 
ausic  is  now  completed,  and  I am  bound  by  my  promise. 

S December , 1870.  A.  Tennyson. 

THE  WINDOW. 


ON  THE  HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly ! 

bonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down 
on  the  plain. 

A jewel,  a jewel  dear  to  a lover’s 
eye! 

>h  is  it  the  brook,  or  a pool,  or  her 
window  pane, 

1 When  the  winds  are  up  in  the 
morning  ? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above, 

Lnd  winds  and  lights  and  shadows 
that  cannot  be  still, 

All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home 
of  my  love, 

ou  are  all  running  on,  and  I stand 
on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 

And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing ! 


Follow,  follow  the  chase ! 

And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as 
quick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 

O lights,  are  you  flying  over  her 
sweet  little  face  $ 

And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  are 
come,  and  gone, 

When  the  winds  are  up  in  the 
morning ! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope  ! 

And  I follow  them  down  to  the  window- 
pane  of  my  dear, 

And  it  brightens  and  darkens  and 
brightens  like  my  hope, 

And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and 
darkens  like  my  fear, 

And  the  winds  are  up  in  the 
morning. 


194 


THE  WINDOW. 


AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 

Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine ! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 

Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss ; and  make  her  a bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a flower, 
Drop  me  a flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 

Cannot  a flower,  a flower,  be  mine  3 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 

Drop  me  a flower,  a flower,  to  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss  — and  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a flower,  a flower, 
Dropt,  a flower. 

GONE. 

Gone ! 

Gone,  till  the  end  of  the  year, 

Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her,  and 
left  me  in  shadow  here ! 

Gone  — flitted  away, 
Taken  the  stars  from  the  night  and 
the  sun  from  the  day  ! 

Gone,  and  a cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a 
storm  in  the  air ! 

Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted 
I know  not  where ! 

Down  in  the  south  is  a flash  and  a 
groan : she  is  there ! she  is 
there ! 

WINTER. 

The  frost  is  here, 

And  fuel  is  dear, 

And  woods  are  sear, 

And  fires  burn  clear, 

And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going 
year. 

Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 
The  blue  wood-louse,  and  the  plump 
dormouse, 

And  the  bees  are  still'd,  and  the  flies 
are  kill'd, 

And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the 
house, 

But  not  into  mine. 


Bite,  frost,  bite! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer, 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer. 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer, 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the 
earth, 

But  not  into  mine. 

SPRING. 

Birds’  love  and  birds'  song 
Flying  here  and  there, 

Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 

And  you  with  gold  for  hair ! 

Birds'  song  and  birds'  love. 

Passing  with  the  weather. 

Men’s  song  and  men's  love, 

To  love  once  and  for  ever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love, 

And  women's  love  and  men's ! 

And  you  my  wren  with  a crown  of 
gold, 

You  my  queen  of  the  wrens ! 

You  the  queen  of  the  wrens  — 

We'll  be  birds  of  a feather, 

I’ll  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the 
wrens. 

And  all  in  a nest  together. 

THE  LETTER. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet, 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy  1 
Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet  — 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I write  to  her  3 shall  I go  3 
Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by  3 
Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no; 
Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay  i 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face  3 
Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy  3 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace, 

ny; 

Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below  — 
Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye : 
Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no ; 
Somebody  knows  that  she’ll  say  ay  ! 

NO  ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and 
the  rain ! 


THE  WINDOW. 


195 


Is  it  ay  or  no  ? is  it  ay  or  no  ? 

And  never  a glimpse  of  her  window 
pane ! 

And  I may  die  but  the  grass  will 
grow, 

And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I am 
gone, 

And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world 
will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres, 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm, 
Ay  is  life  for  a hundred  years, 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm, 
And  When  I am  there  and  dead  and 
gone, 

The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will 
go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and 
the  wet ! 

Wet  west  wind  how  you  blow,  you 
blow ! 

And  never  a line  from  my  lady  yet ! 

Is  it  ay  or  no  ? is  it  ay  or  no  ? 

Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I am  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may 
go  on. 

NO  ANSWER, 

Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb, 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come, 
Love  will  come  but  once  a life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass  ! 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass  : 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
\fter-loves  of  maids  and  men 
*Vre  but  dainties  drest  again : 
ve  me  now,  you'll  love  me  then  : 
Love  can  love  but  once  a life. 

THE  ANSWER. 

Vo  little  hands  that  meet, 
flaspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet ! 
lust  I take  you  and  break  you, 

Vo  little  hands  that  meet  ? 
must  take  you,  and  break  you, 
md  loving  hands  must  part  — 

’ake,  take  — break,  break  — 

Sreak  — you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won  — 

Break,  break,  and  all's  done. 


AT. 

Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day, 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never 
were  merry  before, 

Be  merry  in  heaven,  O larks,  and  far 
away, 

And  merry  for  ever  and  ever,  and 
one  day  more. 

Why  ? 

For  it's  easy  to  find  a rhyme. 

Look,  look,  how  he  flits, 

The  fire-crown'd  king  of  the  wrens, 
from  out  of  the  pine  ! 

Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom, 
the  mad  little  tits ! 

“ Cuck-oo ! Cuck-oo ! " was  ever  a 
May  so  fine  ? 

Why? 

For  it's  easy  to  find  a rhyme. 

O merry  the  linnet  and  dove, 

And  swallow  and  sparrow  and 
throstle,  and  have  your  desire  ! 

O merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten 
the  wings  of  love, 

And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens 
with  a crown  of  fire. 

Why? 

For  its  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 


WHEN. 

Sun  comes,  moon  comes. 

Time  slips  away. 

Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 

Love,  fix  a day. 

“ A year  hence,  a year  hence.” 

“We  shall  both  be  gray.” 

“ A month  hence,  a month  hence." 
“ Far,  far  away.” 

“ A week  hence,  a week  hence.” 

“Ah,  the  long  delay.” 

“ Wait  a little,  wait  a little, 

You  shall  fix  a day.” 

“ To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 

And  that's  an  age  away.” 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 

And  honor  all  the  day. 


196 


THE  WINDOW. 


MARRIAGE  MORNING. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth, 

You  send  a flash  to  the  sun. 

Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love, 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 

Oh,  the  woods  and  the  meadows, 
Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay’d  to  be  kind, 
Meadows  in  which  we  met ! 

Light,  so  low  in  the  vale 
You  flash  and  lighten  afar, 

For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love, 


And  you  are  his  morning  star. 
Flash,  I am  coming,  I come, 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood, 

Oh,  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart, 
Into  my  heart  and  my  blood ! 

Heart,  are  you  great  enough 
For  a love  that  never  tires  ? 

O heart,  are  you  great  enough  for  love ,? 

I have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers, 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 

Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 
Flash  for  a million  miles. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  XING. 


DEDICATION. 

These  to  His  Memory  — since  he  held 
them  dear, 

Perchance  as  finding  there  uncon- 
sciously 

5ome  image  of  himself — I dedicate, 

dedicate,  I consecrate  with  tears  — 

These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 

Scarce  other  than  my  king's  ideal 
knight, 

4 Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as 
liis  king; 

Vliose  glory  was,  redressing  human 
wrong ; 

Vho  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd 
to  it ; 

Vho  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to 
her  — " 

ler  — over  all  whose  realms  to  their 
last  isle, 

Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  im- 
minent war, 

'he  shadow  of  His  loss  drew  like 
eclipse, 

>arkening  the  world.  We  have  lost 
him  : he  is  gone  : 

iTe  know  him  now:  all  narrow  jeal- 
ousies 

.re  silent;  and  we  see  him  as  he 
moved, 

ow  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish’d, 
wise, 

rith  what  sublime  repression  of  him- 
# self, 

nd  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly; 


Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 

Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 
perch 

Of  wing'd  ambitions,  nor  a vantage- 
ground 

For  pleasure ; but  thro'  all  this  tract 
of  years 

Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a blame- 
less life, 

Before  a thousand  peering  littlenesses, 

In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon 
a throne, 

And  blackens  every  blot:  for  where 
is  he, 

Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 

A lovelier  life,  a more  unstain’d,  than 
his  ? 

Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of 
his  sons 

Hope  more  for  these  than  some  in- 
heritance 

Of  such  a life,  a heart,  a mind  as  thine, 

Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 

Laborious  for  her  people  and  her 
poor  — 

Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler 
day  — 

Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and 
Waste 

To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of 
peace  — 

Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious 
gleam 

Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 

Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a Prince 
indeed, 

Beyond  all  titles,  and  a household 
name, 


198 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Hereafter,  thro’  all  times,  Albert  the 
Good. 

Break  not,  0 woman’s-heart,  but 
still  endure ; 

Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but 
endure, 

Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that 
star 

Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee  that 
ye  made 

One  light  together,  but  has  past  and 
leaves 

The  Crown  a lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love, 

His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o'ershadow 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  people  chmfort 
Thee, 

Till  God's  love  set  Thee  at  his  side 
again  ! 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 

Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other 
child ; 

And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on 
earth, 

Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For  many  a petty  king  ere  Arthur 
came 

Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging 
war 

Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land; 

And  still  from  time  to  time  the 
heathen  host 

Swarm'd  overseas,  and  harried  what 
was  left. 

And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wil- 
derness, 

Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 
more, 

But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur 
came. 


For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought 
and  died, 

And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and 
died, 

But  either  fail'd  to  make  the  kingdom 
one. 

And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a 
space, 

And  thro'  the  puissance  of  his  Table 
Round, 

Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under 
him, 

Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a realm, 
and  reign'd. 

And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard 
was  waste, 

Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a 
beast  therein, 

And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the 
beast ; 

So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar 
and  bear 

Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in 
the  fields, 

And  wallow’d  in  the  gardens  of  the 
King. 

And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would 
steal 

The  children  and  devour, but  nowand 
then, 

Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her 
fierce  teat 

To  human  sucklings ; and  the  children, 
housed 

In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat 
would  growl, 

And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  four 
feet,  \ 

Till,  straighten'd,  they  grew  up  to 
wolf-like  men, 

Worse  than  the  wolves.  And  King 
Leodogran 

Groan’d  for  the  Roman  legions  here 
again, 

And  Caesar’s  eagle:  then  his  brother 
king, 

Urien,  assail'd  him  : last  a heathen 
horde, 

Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and 
earth  with  blood. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


199 


And  on  the  spike  that  split  the 
mother’s  heart 

Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till, 
amazed. 

He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn 
for  aid. 

But  — for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 
crown’d, 

Tho’  not  without  an  uproar  made  by 
those 

Who  cried,  “ He  is  not  Uther’s  son  ” 
— the  King 

Sent  to  him,  saying,  “ Arise,  and  help 
us  thou ! 

For  here  between  the  man  and  beast 
we  die.” 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed 
of  arms. 

But  heard  the  call,  and  came : and 
Guinevere 

Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him 
pass ; 

But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or 
shield 

The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 

But  rode  a simple  knight  among  his 
knights, 

And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms 
than  he. 

She  saw  him  not,  or  mark’d  not,  if  she 
saw, 

One  among  many,  tho’  his  face  was 
bare. 

But  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he 
past, 

Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 

Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 
pitch’d 

His  tents  beside  the  forest.  Then  he 
drave 

The  heathen ; after,  slew  the  beast, 
and  fell’d 

The  forest,  letting  in  the  sun,  and 
made 

Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and 
the  knight 

And  so  return’d. 

For  while  he  linger’d  there, 

A doubt  that  ever  smoulder’d  in  the 
hearts 


Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of 
his  realm 

Flash’d  forth  and  into  war  : for  most 
of  these, 

Colleaguing  with  a score  of  petty 
kings, 

Made  head  against  him,  crying,  “ Who 
is  he 

That  he  should  rule  us  ? who  hath 
proven  him 

King  Uther’s  son'?  for  lo  ! we  look  at 
him, 

And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs 
nor  voice, 

Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we 
knew. 

This  is  the  son  of  Gorlois,  not  the 
King ; 

This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the 
King.” 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to 
battle,  felt 

Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the 
life, 

Desiring  to  be  join’d  with  Guinevere ; 

And  thinking  as  he  rode,  “ Her  father 
said 

That  there  between  the  man  and  beast 
they  die. 

Shall  I not  lift  her  from  this  land  of 

beasts 

Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side 
with  me  ? 

What  happiness  to  reign  a lonely 
king, 

Vext  — O ye  stars  that  shudder  over 
me, 

0 earth  that  soundest  hollow  under 

me, 

Vext  with  waste  dreams  1 for  saving 
I be  join’d 

To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1 seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world. 

And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work 

Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 
realm 

Victor  and  lord.  But  were  I join’d 
with  her, 

Then  might  we  live  together  as  one 
life, 


/ 


zoo 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR . 


And  reigning  with  one  will  in  every- 
thing 

Have  power  in  this  dark  land  to 
lighten  it, 

And  power  on  this  dead  world  to 
make  it  live.” 

Thereafter  — as  he  speaks  who  tells 
the  tale  — 

When  Arthur  reach’d  a field-of-battle 
bright 

With  pitch’d  pavilions  of  his  foe,  the 
world 

Was  all  so  clear  about  him,  that  he 
saw 

The  smallest  rock  far  on  the  faintest 
hill, 

And  even  in  high  day  the  morning 
star. 

So  when  the  King  had  set  his  banner 
broad, 

At  once  from  either  side,  with  trumpet- 
blast, 

And  shouts,  and  clarions  shrilling  unto 
blood, 

The  long-lanced  battle  let  their  horses 
run. 

And  now  the  Barons  and  the  kings 
prevail’d, 

And  now  the  King,  as  here  and  there 
that  war 

Went  swaying;  but  the  Powers  who 
walk  the  world 

Made  lightnings  and  great  thunders 
over  him, 

And  dazed  all  eyes,  till  Arthur  by 
main  might, 

And  mightier  of  his  hands  with  every 
blow, 

And  leading  all  his  knighthood  threw 
the  kings 

Carados,  Urien,Cradlemont  of  Wales, 

Claudias,  and  Clariance  of  Northum- 
berland, 

The  King  Brandagoras  of  Latangor, 

With  Anguisant  of  Erin,  Morganore, 

And  Lot  of  Orkney.  Then,  before  a 
voice 

As  dreadful  as  the  shout  of  one  who 

S66S 

To  one  who  sins,  and  deems  himself 
alone 


And  all  the  world  asleep,  they  swerved 
and  brake 

Flying,  and  Arthur  call’d  to  stay  the 

brands 

That  hack’d  among  the  flyers,  “Ho! 
they  yield ! ” 

So  like  a painted  battle  the  war  stood 

Silenced,  the  living  quiet  as  the  dead, 

And  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  joy  was 
lord. 

He  laugh’d  upon  his  warrior  whom 
he  loved 

And  honor’d  most.  “ Thou  dost  not 
doubt  me  King, 

So  well  thine  arm  hath  wrought  for 
me  to-day.” 

“ Sir  and  my  liege,”  he  cried,  “ the 
fire  of  God 

Descends  upon  thee  in  the  battle-field  : 

I know  thee  for  my  King ! ” Whereat 
the  two, 

For  each  had  warded  either  in  the 
fight, 

Sware  on  the  field  of  death  a deathless 
love. 

And  Arthur  said,  “ Man’s  word  is  God 
in  man : 

Let  chance  what  will,  I trust  thee  to 
the  death.” 

Then  quickly  from  the  foughten 
field  he  sent 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 

His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leo- 
dogran, 

Saying,  “ If  I in  aught  have  served 
thee  well, 

Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to 
wife.” 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran 
in  heart 

Debating  — “ How  should  I that  am  a 
king, 

However  much  he  holp  me  at  mj/ 
need, 

Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a 
king, 

And  a king’s  son  — lifted  his  voice 
and  call’d 

A hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  tc 

I whom 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


20 


He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him 
required 

His  counsel : “ Knowest  thou  aught  of 
Arthur’s  birth  ? ” 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain 
and  said, 

“ Sir  King,  there  be  but  two  old  men 
that  know  : 

And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ; and  one 

Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever 
served 

King  Uther  thro’  his  magic  art ; and 
one 

Is  Merlin’s  master  (so  they  call  him) 
Bleys, 

Who  taught  him  magic ; but  the 
scholar  ran 

Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that 
Bleys 

Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 
wrote 

All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 

In  one  great  annal-book,  where  after 
years 

Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arthur’s 
birth.” 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran 
replied, 

“ 0 friend,  had  I been  holpen  half  as 
well 

By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to- 
day, 

Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their 
share  of  me: 

But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once 
more 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere.” 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him, 
the  King  said, 

" I have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by 
lesser  fowl, 

And  reason  in  the  chase  : but  where- 
fore now 

Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat 
of  war, 

Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlo'is, 

Others  of  Anton  ? Tell  me,  ye  your- 
selves. 


Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uther  s 
son  ? ” 


And  Ulfius  and  Brastius  answer’d, 
“ Ay.” 

Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his 
knights 

Knighted  by  Arthur  at  his  crowning, 
spake  — 

Tor  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word 
was  he, 

Whenever  slander  breathed  against 
the  King  — 

“ Sir,  there  be  many  rumors  on  this 
head : 

For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in 
their  hearts, 

Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways 
are  sweet, 

And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less 
than  man : 

And  there  be  those  who  deem  him 
more  than  man, 

And  dream  he  dropt  from  heaven : but 
my  belief 

In  all  this  matter  — so  ye  care  to 
learn  — 

Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther’s 
time 

The  prince  and  warrior  Gorlo'is,  he 
that  held 

Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea, 

Was  wedded  with  a winsome  wife, 
Ygerne  : 

And  daughters  had  she  borne  him,  — 
one  whereof, 

Lot’s  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney, 
Bellicent, 

Hath  ever  like  a loyal  sister  cleaved 

To  Arthur,  — but  a son  she  had  not 
borne. 

And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  . 

But  she,  a stainless  wife  to  Gorlo’is, 

So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his 
love, 

That  Gorlo’is  and  King  Uther  went  to 
war  : 

And  overthrown  was  Gorlo’is  and  slain. 

Then  Uther  in  his  wrath  and  heaf 
besieged 


202 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR . 


Ygerne  within  Tintagil,  where  her 
men, 

Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their 
walls, 

Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd 
in, 

And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  him- 
self. 

So,  compass’d  by  the  power  of  the 
King,  # . 

Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him  m her 
tears, 

And  with  a shameful  swiftness  : after- 
ward, 

Not  many  moons,  King  Uther  died 
himself, 

Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to 
rule 

After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to 
wrack. 

And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the 
new  year, 

By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 

That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his 
time 

Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as 
born 

Deliver’d  at  a secret  postern-gate 

To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 

Until  his  hour  should  come  ; because 
the  lords 

Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of 
this, 

Wild  beasts,  and  surely  would  have 
torn  the  child 

Piecemeal  among  them,  had  they 
known ; for  each 

But  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self 
and  hand, 

And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 

Of  Gorlois.  Wherefore  Merlin  took 
the  child, 

And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old 
knight 

And  ancient  friend  of  Uther  ; and  his 
wife 

Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear’d 
him  with  her  own  ; 

And  no  man  knew.  And  ever  since 
the  lords 

Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among 
themselves, 


So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack : 
but  now, 

This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour 
had  come) 

Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in 
the  hall, 

Proclaiming,  4 Here  is  Uther’s  heir, 
your  king,’ 

A hundred  voices  cried,  ‘Away  with 
him ! 

No  king  of  ours!  a son  of  Gorlo'is 
he, 

Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no 
king, 

Or  else  baseborn.’  Yet  Merlin  thro’ 
his  craft, 

And  while  the  people  clamor’d  for  a 
king, 

Had  Arthur  crown’d;  but  after,  the 
great  lords 

Banded,  and  so  brake  out  in  open 
war.” 

Then  while  the  King  debated  with 
himself 

If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shameful- 
ness, 

Or  born  the  son  of  Gorlois,  after 
death, 

Or  Uther’s  son,  and  born  before  his 
time, 

Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  any- 
thing 

Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to 
Cameliard, 

With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her 
two  sons, 

Lot’s  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney, 
Bellicent ; 

Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would, 
the  King 

Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at 
meat, 

“ A doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  sum- 
mer seas. 

Ye  come  from  Arthur’s  court.  Victor 
his  men 

lieport  him ! Yea,  but  ye  — think  ye 
this  king  — 

So  many  those  that  hate  him,  and  so 
strong, 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


203 


So  few  his  knights,  however  brave 
they  be  — 

Hath  body  enow  to  hold  his  foemen 
down  ? ” 


“ O King,”  she  cried,  “ and  I will 
tell  thee:  few, 

Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind 
with  him ; 

For  I was  near  him  when  the  savage 
yells 

Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur 
sat 

Crown'd  on  the  dais,  .and  his  warriors 
cried, 

4 Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work 
thy  will 

Who  love  thee.'  Then  the  King  in 
low  deep  tones, 

And  simple  words  of  great  authority, 

Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his 
own  self, 

That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from 
kneeling,  some 

Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a ghost, 

Some  flush’d,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 
who  wakes 

Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a light. 

“ But  when  he  spake  and  cheer'd 
his  Table  Round 

With  large  divine  and  comfortable 
words 

Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee  — I 
beheld 

From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order 
flash 

& momentary  likeness  of  the  King : 

^.nd  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the 
cross 

\nd  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 

Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur, 
smote 

^lame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three 
rays, 

)ne  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair 
queens, 

Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne, 
the  friends 

)f  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with 
bright 


Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his 
need. 

“And  there  I saw  mage  Merlin, 
whose  vast  wit 

And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the 
hands 

Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

“ And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  oi 
the  Lake, 

Who  knows  a subtler  magic  than  his 
own  — 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 

She  gave  the  King  his  huge  cross- 
hilted  sword, 

Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out : a 
mist 

Of  incense  curl'd  about  her,  and  her 
face 

Wellnigh  was  hidden  in  the  minster 
gloom ; 

But  there  was  heard  among  the  holy 
hymns 

A voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 

Down  in  a deep,  calm,  whatsoever 
storms 

May  shake  the  world,  and  when  the 
surface  rolls, 

Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like 
our  Lord. 

“ There  likewise  I beheld  Excalibur 

Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne,  the 
sword 

That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 
lake, 

And  Arthur  row’d  across  and  took  it 
— rich 

With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt, 

Bewildering  heart  and  eye — the  blade 
so  bright 

That  men  are  blinded  by  it  — on  one 
side. 

Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 
world, 

4 Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  ye 
shall  see, 

And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak 
yourself, 


204 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR . 


‘ Cast  me  away ! ’ And  sad  was 
Arthur’s  face 

Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell’d 
him, 

1 Take  thou  and  strike  ! the  time  to 
cast  away 

Is  yet  far-off.’  So  this  great  brand 
the  king* 

Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen 
down.” 

Thereat  Leodogram  rejoiced,  but 
thought 

To  sift  his  doubtings  to  the  last,  and 
ask’d, 

Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her 
face, 

“ The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near 
akin, 

But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 

Being  his  own  dear  sister ; ” and  she 
said, 

“Daughter  of  Gorlois  andYgerne  am 

I;” 

“ And  therefore  Arthur’s  sister  ? ” 
ask’d  the  King. 

She  answer’d,  “These  be  secret  things,” 
and  sign’d 

To  Uhose  two  sons  to  pass  and  let 
them  be. 

And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into 
song 

Sprang  out,  and  follow’d  by  his  flying 
hair 

Ran  like  a colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he 
saw : 

But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the 
doors, 

And  there  half-heard ; the  same  that 
afterward 

Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking 
found  his  doom. 

And  then  the  Queen  made  answer, 
“ What  know  I ? 

For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and 
hair, 

And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I ; and 
dark 

Was  Gorlois,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther 
too, 


Wellnigh  to  blackness  ; but  this  King 
is  fair 

Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 

Moreover,  always  in  my  mind  I hear 

A cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 

A mother  weeping,  and  I hear  her  say, 

‘O  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty 
one, 

To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of 
the  world.’” 

“ Ay,”  said  the  King,  “ and  hear  ye 
such  a cry  ? , 

But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon 
thee  first  ? ” 

“0  King!”  she  cried,  “and  I will 
tell  thee  true : 

He  found  me  first  when  yet  a little 
maid  : 

Beaten  I had  been  for  a little  fault 

Whereof  I was  not  guilty ; and  out  I I 
ran 

And  flung  myself  down  on  a bank  of 
heath, 

And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all 
therein, 

And  wept,  and  wish’d  that  I were 
dead ; and  he  — 

I know  not  whether  of  himself  he 
came, 

Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say, 
can  walk 

Unseen  at  pleasure — he  was  at  my 
side 

And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted 
my  heart, 

And  dried  my  tears,  being  a child  with 
me. 

And  many  a time  he  came,  and  ever- 
more 

As  I grew  greater  grew  with  me ; and 
sad 

At  times  he  seem’d,  and  sad  with  him 
was  I, 

Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I loved 
him  not, 

But  sweet  again,  and  then  I loved  him 
well. 

And  now  of  late  1 see  him  less  anti 
less, 


THE  COMING  01  ARTHUR. 


205 


3ut  those  first  days  had  golden  hours 
for  me, 

?or  then  I surely  thought  he  would 
be  king 

“ But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another 
tale  ; 

?or  Bleys,  our  Merlin’s  master,  as 
they  say, 

3ied  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to 
me, 

Co  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his 
life. 

>hrunk  like  a fairy  changeling  lay 
the  mage ; 

i.nd  when  I enter’d  told  me  that  him- 
self 

ind  Merlin  ever  served  about  the 
King, 

Jther,  before  he  died;  and  on  the 
night 

V'hen  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 

loaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the 
two 

^eft  the  still  King,  and  passing  forth 
to  breathe, 

'hen  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the 
chasm 

descending  thro’  the  dismal  night  — 
a night 

i which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and 
earth  were  lost  — 

eheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary 
deeps 

; seem’d  in  heaven,  a ship,  the  shape 
thereof 

dragon  wing’d,  and  all  from  stem 
to  stern 

right  with  a shining  people  on  the 
decks, 

nd  gone  as  soon  as  seen.  And  then 
the  two 

ropt  to  the  cove,  and  watch’d  the 
great  sea  fall, 

rave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than 
the  last, 

11  last,  a ninth  one,  gathering  half 
the  deep 

i nd  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and 
plunged 

Daring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a 
flame : 


And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame 
was  borne 

A naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin’s 
feet, 

Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and 
cried  ‘ The  King ! 

Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther!  ’ And  the 
fringe 

Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up 
the  strand, 

Lash’d  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the 
word, 

And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in 
fire, 

So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed 
in  fire. 

And  presently  thereafter  follow’d 
calm. 

Free  sky  and  stars  : 4 And  this  same 
child,’  he  said, 

4 Is  he  who  reigns ; nor  could  I part 
in  peace 

Till  this  were  told.’  And  saying  this 
the  seer 

Went  thro’  the  strait  and  dreadful 
pass  of  death, 

Not  ever  to  be  question’d  any  more 

Save  on  the  further  side ; but  when  I 
met 

Merlin,  and  ask’d  him  if  these  things 
were  truth  — 

The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked 
child 

Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas  — 

He  laugh’d  as  is  his  wont,  and  an- 
swer’d me 

In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and 
said : 

“ ‘ Kain,  rain,  and  sun ! a rainbow 
in  the  sky  ! 

A young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by ; 

An  old  man’s  wit  may  wander  ere  he 
die. 

Rain,  rain,  and  sun ! a rainbow  on 
the  lea ! 

And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to 
thee; 

And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it 
be. 

Rain,  sun,  and  rain ! and  the  free 
blossom  blows : 


•206 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Sun,  rain,  and  sun ! and  where  is  he 
who  knows  ? 

From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 
he  goes/ 

",  So  Merlin  riddling  anger’d  me; 
but  thou 

Fear  not  to  give  this  King  thine  only 
child, 

Guinevere : so  great  bards  of  him  will 
sing 

Hereafter ; and  dark  sayings  from  of 
old 

Ranging  and  ringing  thro’  the  minds 
of  men, 

And  echo’d  by  old  folk  beside  their 
fires 

For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is 
done, 

Speak  of  the  King ; and  Merlin  in  our 
time 

Hath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and 
sworn 

Tho’  men  may  wound  him  that  he  will 
not  die, 

But  pass,  again  to  come ; and  then  or 
now 

Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot, 

Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for 
their  king.” 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran 
rejoiced, 

But  musing  “ Shall  I answer  yea  or 
nay  1 ” 

Doubted,  and  drowsed,  nodded  and 
slept,  and  saw, 

Dreaming,  a slope  of  land  that  ever 
grew, 

Field  after  field,  up  to  a height,  the 
peak 

Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a phantom 
king, 

Now  looming,  and  now  lost;  and  on 
the  slope 

The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd 
was  driven, 

Fire  glimpsed ; and  all  the  land  from 
roof  and  rick, 

In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a rolling 
wind. 


Stream’d  to  the  peak,  and  mingled 
with  the  haze 

And  made  it  thicker;  while  the  phan- 
tom king 

Sent  out  at  times  a voice ; and  here 
or  there 

Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the 
voice,  the  rest 

Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  “ No  king 
of  ours, 

No  son  of  Utlier,  and  no  king  of  ours  ; ” 

Till  with  a wink  his  dream  was 
changed,  the  haze 

Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  be- 
came 

As  nothing,  but  the  King  stood  our 
in  heaven, 

Crown’d.  And  Leodogran  awoke,  and 
sent 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias  and  Bedivere, 

Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answer 
ing  yea. 

Then  Arthur  charged  his  warrioi 
whom  he  loved 

And  honor’d  most,  Sir  Lancelot,  ti 
ride  forth 

And  bring  the  Queen  ; — and  watch’r 
him  from  the  gates  : 

And  Lancelot  past  away  among  tin 
flowers, 

(For  then  was  latter  April)  anc 
return’d 

Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  wit) 
Guinevere. 

To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  higl 
saint, 

Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  an' 
before 

The  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  th 
King  . .... 

That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stall 
less  white, 

The  fair  beginners  of  a nobler  time, 

And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  hin 
his  knights 

Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  hi 
joy. 

Far  shone  the  fields  of  May  thr< 
open  door, 

The  sacred  altar  blossom’d  white  wit 
May, 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


207 


The  Sun  of  .May  descended  on  their 
King, 

They  gazed  on  all  earth’s  beauty  in 
their  Queen, 

Roll’d  incense,  and  there  past  along 
the  hymns 

A voice  as  of  the  waters,  while  the  two 
Sware  at  the  shrine  of  Christ  a death- 
less love : 

And  Arthur  said,  “ Behold,  thy  doom 
is  mine. 

Let  chance  what  will,  I love  thee  to 
the  death ! ” 

To  whom  the  Queen  replied  with 
drooping  eyes, 

“ King  and  my  lord,  I love  thee  to  the 
death ! ” 

And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands 
and  spake, 

Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and 
make  the  world 

Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one 
( with  thee, 

Amd  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table 
il  Round 

fulfil  the  boundless  purpose  of  their 
King ! ” 

! So  Dubric  said ; but  when  they  left 
the  shrine 

flJreat  Lords  from  Rome  before  the 
portal  stood, 

ijn  scornful  stillness  gazing  as  they 
past ; 

pen  while  they  paced  a city  all  on 
fire 

Pith  sun  and  cloth  of  gold,  the  trum- 
pets blew, 

pd  Arthur’s  knighthood  sang  before 
the  King : — 

i 

“Blow  trumpet,  for  the  world  is 
white  with  May ; 

jlow  trumpet,  the  long  night  hath 
roll’d  away ! 

ijlow  thro’  the  living  world — ‘Let 
the  King  reign.’ 

“Shall  Rome  or  Heathen  rule  in 
f Arthur’s  realm  ? 
ash  brand  and  lance,  fall  battleaxe 
upon  helm, 


Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand!  Let 
the  King  reign. 

“Strike  for  the  King  and  live  ! his 
knights  have  heard 

That  God  hath  told  the  King  a secret 
word. 

Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand!  Let 
the  King  reign. 

“Blow  trumpet!  he  will  lift  us 
from  the  dust. 

Blow  trumpet ! live  the  strength  and 
die  the  lust ! 

Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand ! Let 
the  King  reign. 

“ Strike  for  the  King  and  die ! and 
if  thou  diest, 

The  King  is  King,  and  ever  wills  the 
highest. 

Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand! 
Let  the  King  reign. 

“ Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mighty  in  his 
May ! 

Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mightier  day  by 
day! 

Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand! 
Let  the  King  reign. 

“ The  King  will  follow  Christ,  and 
we  the  King 

In  whom  high  God  hath  breathed  a 
secret  thing. 

Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand ! Let 
the  King  reign.” 

So  sang  the  knighthood,  moving  to 
their  hall. 

There  at  the  banquet  those  great 
Lords  from  Rome, 

The  slowly-fading  mistress  of  the 
world, 

Strode  in,  and  claim’d  their  tribute  as 
of  yore. 

But  Arthur  spake,  “Behold,  for  these 
have  sworn 

To  wage  my  wars,  and  worship  me 
their  King  ; 

The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 
to  new; 


208 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father 
Christ, 

Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and 
old 

To  drive  the  heathen  from  your 
Roman  wall, 

No  tribute  will  we  pay”:  so  those 
great  lords 

Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur 
strove  with  Rome. 


And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for 
a space 

Were  all  one  will,  and  thro’  that 
strength  the  King 

Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under 
him, 

Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles 
overcame 

The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a realm 
and  reign’d. 


THE  ROUND  TABLE. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

GERAINT  AND  ENID. 

MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 

LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 

And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a showerful 
spring 

Stared  at  the  spate.  A slender-shafted 

Pine 

Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl  d 
away.  . 

“ How  he  went  down,”  said  Gareth, 
“ as  a false  knight 

Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 

Were  mine  to  use  — O senseless  cata- 

Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy  — 

And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with 
cold  snows 

And  mine  is  living  blood:  thou  dost 
His  will, 

The  Maker’s,  and  not  knowest,  and  1 
that  know, 

Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good 
mother’s  hall 

Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 

Prison’d,  and  kept  and  coax  d and 
whistled  to  — 

Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  Still 
a child ! 

Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me  ! 

A worse  were  better ; yet  no  worse 
would  I. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

GUINEVERE. 

Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put 
force 

To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 
prayer, 

Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to 
sweep 

In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 

To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence 
swoop 

Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash 
them  dead, 

A knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his 
will, 

To  cleanse  the  world.  Why,  Gawain. 
when  he  came 

With  Modred  hither  in  the  summer 
time, 

Ask’d  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  prover 
knight. 

Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the 
judge. 

Then  I so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  In 
said, 

< Thou  hast  half  prevail’d  against  me, 
said  so  — he  — 

Tho’  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  wa 
mute, 

For  he  is  alway  sullen : what  care  I ? 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hcverin 
round  her  chair 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


209 


Ask'd,  “ Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still 
the  child, 

Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child  ? " 
She  laugh'd, 

“ Thou  art  but  a wild-goose  to  ques- 
tion it." 

• “ Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  the  child," 
he  said, 

“ Being  a goose  and  rather  tame  than 
wild, 

Hear  the  child's  story."  “ Yea,  my 
well-beloved, 

An  'twere  but  of  goose  and  golden 
eggs." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 

“ Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  hut  this  egg 
of  mine 

Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can 

lay ; 

For  this  an  Eagle,  a royal  Eagle,  laid 

Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a 
palm 

As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of 
Hours. 

And  there  was  ever  haunting  round 
the  palm 

5 A lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often 
saw 

■ - he  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft, 
and  thought 

1 An  I could  climb  and  lay  my  hand 
upon  it, 

Then  were  I wealthier  than  a leash  of 
kings,' 

But  ever  when  he  reach'd  a hand  to 
climb, 

)ne,  that  had  loved  him  from  his 
childhood,  caught 

ind  stay'd  him,  ‘ Climb  not  lest  thou 
break  thy  neck, 

charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  the 
boy, 

weet  mother,  neither  clomb,  nor 
brake  his  neck, 

ut  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining 
for  it, 

nd  past  away." 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 

True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk'd  him- 
self and  climb'd, 


And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure 
to  him." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 

“ Gold  ? said  I gold  ? — ay  then,  why 
he,  or  she, 

Or  whoso'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 

Had  ventured  — had  the  thing  I spake 
of  been 

Mere  gold  — but  this  was  all  of  that 
true  steel, 

Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur, 

And  lightnings  play'd  about  it  in  the 
storm, 

And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried 
at  it, 

And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in 
the  nest, 

That  sent  him  from  his  senses  : let  me 
go." 

Then  Bellicent  bemoan'd  herself 
and  said, 

“ Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneli- 
ness ? 

Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the 
hearth 

Lies  like  a log,  and  all  but  smoulder'd 
out ! 

For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the 
King 

He  fought  against  him  in  the  Barons' 
war, 

And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  terri. 
tory, 

His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now 
lies  there 

A yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburia- 
ble, 

No  more;  nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor 
speaks,  nor  knows. 

And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur's 
hall, 

Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full 
love 

I feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a 
love  . 

Stay  therefore  thou ; red  berries  charm 
the  bird, 

And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts, 
the  wars, 


210 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor 
pang 

Of  wrench’d  or  broken  limb  — an  often 
chance 

In  those  brain-stunning  shocks,  and 
tourney-falls, 

Frights  to  my  heart ; but  stay  : follow 
the  deer 

By  these  tall  firs  and  our  fast-falling 
burns ; 

So  make  thy  manhood  mightier  day 
by  day; 

Sweet  is  the  chase:  and  I will  seek 
thee  out 

Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to 
grace 

Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my 
prone  year, 

Till  falling  into  Lot’s  forgetfulness 

I know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  any- 
thing. 

Stay,  my  best  son ! ye  are  yet  more 
boy  than  man.” 

Then  Gareth,  “An  ye  hold  me  yet 
for  child, 

Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the 
child. 

For,  mother,  there  was  once  a King, 
like  ours. 

The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and 
marriageable, 

Ask’d  for  a bride  ; and  thereupon  the 
King 

Set  two  before  him.  One  was  fair, 
strong,  arm’d  — 

But  to  be  won  by  force  — and  many 
men 

Desired  her ; one,  good  lack,  no  man 
desired. 

And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the 
King : 

That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force, 
he  needs 

Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man 
desired, 

A red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself 
so  vile, 

That  evermore  she  long’d  to  hide  her- 
self, 

Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to 

eye  — 


Yea — some  she  cleaved  to,  but  thej 
died  of  her. 

And  one  — they  call’d  her  Fame ; and 
one,  — O Mother, 

How  can  ye  keep  me  tether’d  to  you 
— Shame ! 

Man  am  I grown,  a man’s  work  must 
I do. 

Follow  the  deer  ? follow  the  Christ, 
the  King, 

Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong, 
follow  the  King  — 

Else,  wherefore  born  1 ” 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 

“ Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who 
deem  him  not, 

Or  will  not  deem  him,  wholly  proven 
King  — 

Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I knew  him 
King, 

When  I was  frequent  with  him  in  m3 
youth, 

And  heard  him  Kingly  speak,  anc 
doubted  him 

No  more  than  he,  himself;  but  fel 
him  mine, 

Of  closest  kin  to  me  : yet  — wilt  thoi 
leave 

Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risl 
thine  all, 

Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  prove! 
King  ? 

Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  roun< 
his  birth 

Hath  lifted  but  a little.  Stay,  swee 
son.” 

And  Gareth  answer’d  quickly,  “ Nc 
an  hour, 

So  that  ye  yield  me  -—  I will  walk  thr< 
fire, 

Mother,  to  gain  it  — your  full  leave  t 
go. 

Not  proven,  who  swept  the  dust  ( 
ruin’d  Rome 

From  off  the  threshold  of  the  reali: 
and  crush’d 

The  Idolaters,  and  made  the  peop 
free  ? 

Who  should  be  King  save  him  wl 
makes  us  free  1 ” 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


211 


So  when  the  Queen,  who  long  had 
sought  in  vain 

To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which 
he  grew, 

Found  her  son’s  will  unwaveringly 
one, 

She  answer’d  craftily,  “ Will  ye  walk 
thro’  fire  ? 

Who  walks  thro’  fire  will  hardly  heed 
the  smoke. 

Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must : only  one 
proof, 

Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 
knight, 

Jf  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to 
me, 

Thy  mother,  — I demand.” 

And  Gareth  cried, 

‘ A hard  one,  or  a hundred,  so  I go. 

STay  — quick  ! the  proof  to  prove  me 
to  the  quick  ! ” 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother  look- 
ing at  him, 

'Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to 
Arthur’s  hall, 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats 
and  drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen- 
knaves, 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across 
the  bar. 

Tor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any- 
one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a twelvemonth 
and  a day.” 

For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when 
her  son 

■leheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 

.ow  down  thro’  villain  kitchen-vas- 
salage, 

[er  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely- 
proud 

'o  pass  thereby;  so  should  he  rest 

1 with  her, 

losed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of 

I arms. 

1 Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then 
replied,  . 


“ The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in 
soul, 

And  I shall  see  the  jousts.  Thy  son 
am  I, 

And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must 
obey. 

I therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will ; 

For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire 
myself 

To  serve  with  scullions  and  with 
kitchen-knaves ; 

Nor  tell  my  name  to  any  — no,  not  the 
King.” 

Gareth  awhile  linger’d.  The 
mother’s  eye 

Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would 
go, 

And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe’er 
he  turn’d, 

Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  an 
hour, 

When  waken’d  by  the  wind  which  with 
full  voice 

Swept  bellowing  thro’  the  darkness  on 
to  dawn, 

He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling 
two 

That  still  had  tended  on  him  from  his 
birth, 

Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him, 
went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of 
the  soil. 

Southward  they  set  their  faces.  The  • 
birds  made 

Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid 
air. 

The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken’d 
into  green, 

And  the  live  green  had  kindled  into 
flowers, 

For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on 
the  plain 

That  broaden’d  toward  the  base  of 
Camelot, 

Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 

Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  Royal 
mount, 


212 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE . 


That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the 
field. 

At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city 
flash’d  ; 

At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half- 
way down 

Prick’d  thro’  the  mist;  at  times  the 
great  gate  shone 

Only,  that  open’d  on  the  field  below : 

Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disap- 
pear’d. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth 
were  amazed, 

One  crying,  “ Let  us  go  no  further, 
lord. 

Here  is  a city  of  Enchanters,  built 

By  fairy  kings.”  The  second  echo’d 
him, 

“ Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise 
man  at  home 

To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not 
the  King, 

But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairy- 
land, 

Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by 
sorcery 

And  Merlin’s  glamour.”  Then  the  first 
again, 

“ Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere, 

But  all  a vision.” 

Gareth  answer’d  them 

With  laughter,  swearing  he  had 
glamour  enow 

In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth 
and  hopes, 

To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian 

sea ; 

So  push’d  them  all  unwilling  toward 
the  gate. 

And  there  was  no  gate  like  it  under 
heaven. 

For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which 
was  lined 

And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave, 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood : all  her 
dress 

Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flowing 
away ; 

But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly 
arms 


Stretch’d  under  all  the  cornice  and 
upheld : 

And  drops  of  water  fell  from  either 
hand  ; 

And  down  from  one  a sword  was  hung, 
from  one 

A censer,  either  worn  with  wind  and 
storm ; 

And  o’er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred 
fish ; 

And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and 
right, 

Were  Arthur’s  wars  in  weird  devices 
done, 

New  things  and  old  co-twisted,  as  if 
Time 

Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that 
men 

Were  giddy  gazing  there;  and  over 
all 

High  on  the  top  were  those  three 
Queens,  the  friends 

Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at 
his  need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long 
a space 

Stared  at  the  figures,  that  at  last  it 
seem’d 

The  dragon-boughts  and  elvish  em- 
blemings  . . 

Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine  and 
curl : they  call’d 

To  Gareth,  “ Lord,  the  gateway  is 
alive.” 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt  his 
eyes 

So  long,  that  ev’n  to  him  they  seem’d 
to  move. 

Out  of  the  city  a blast  of  music  peal’d. 

Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three, 
to  whom 

From  out  thereunder  came  an  ancient 
man, 

Long-bearded,  saying,  “ Who  be  ye, 
my  sons  ? ” 

Then  Gareth,  “ We  be  tillers  of  the 
soil, 

Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to 
see 


CARETII  AND  LYNETTE. 


213 


The  glories  of  our  King:  but  these, 
my  men, 

(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the 
mist) 

Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or 
come 

From  Fairyland ; and  whether  this 
be  built 

By  magic,  and  by  fairy  Kings  and 
Queens ; 

Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all, 
Or  all  a vision  : and  this  music  now 
Hath  scared  them  both,  but  tell  thou 
these  the  truth.” 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer 
playing  on  him 

And  saying,  “Son,  I have  seen  the 
good  ship  sail 

Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in 
the  heavens, 

And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air: 
And  here  is  truth;  but  an  it  please 
thee  not, 

Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told 
it  me. 

F or  truly  as  thou  sayest,  a Fairy  King 
And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city 
son; 

They  came  from  out  a sacred  mountain- 
cleft 

Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp 
in  hand, 

Amd  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps, 
^nd  as  thou  sayest  it  is  enchanted* 
son, 

: or  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 
having  the  King ; tho’  some  there  be 
that  hold 

he  King  a shadow,  and  the  city  real : 
et  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so 
[ thou  pass 

Jeneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou 
become 

tlirall  to  his  enchantments,  for  the 
King 

/ill  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a 
shame 

man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet 
h the  which 

/ man  can  keep;  but,  so  thou  dread 
u;  to  swesx, 


Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but 
abide 

Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field 
b or  an  ye  heard  a music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city 
is  built 

To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all 
And  therefore  built  for  ever. 

A , _ , Gareth  spake 

Anger  d,  “ Old  Master,  reverence  thine 
own  beard 

That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth, 
and  seems 

Wellnigh  as  Jong  as  thou  art  statured 
tall ! 

Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that 
hath  been 

To  thee  fair-spoken  ? ” 

But  the  Seer  replied, 
Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of 
the  Bards  ? 

'Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation, 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion  ’ 

I mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest 
me, 

And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not 
who 

Thou  seemest,  but  I know  thee  who 
thou  art. 

And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the 
King, 

Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any 
lie.”  . J 

Unmockingly  the  mocker  ending 
here 

Turn’d  to  the  right,  and  past  alone 
the  plain  ; 

Whom  Gareth  looking  after  said,  “ My 
men, 

Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enter- 
prise. 

Eet  love  be  blamed  for  it,  nor  she,  nor 
Well,  we  will  make  amends.” 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laugh’d,  then  enter’d 
with  his  twain 


214 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE . 


Camelot,  a city  of  shadowy  palaces 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the 
work 

Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days  in 
stone ; 

Which  Merlin's  hand,  the  Mage  at 
Arthur’s  court, 

Knowing  all  arts,  had  touch  d,  and 
everywhere 

At  Arthur’s  ordinance,  tip t with  lessen- 
ing peak 

And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire 
to  heaven. 

And  ever  and  anon  a knight  would  pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall : his 
arms 

Clash’d ; and  the  sound  was  good  to 
Gareth’s  ear. 

And  out  of  bower  and  casement  shyly 
glanced 

Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars 
of  love ; 

And  all  about  a healthful  people  stept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a gracious  king. 

Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending 
heard 

A voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  be- 
held 

Far  over  heads  in  that  long-vaulted 
hall 

The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the 
King 

Throned,  and  delivering  doom  — and 
look’d  no  more  — 

But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering 
in  his  ears, 

And  thought,  “For  this  half-shadow 
of  a lie 

The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when 
I speak.” 

Yet  pressing  on,  tho’allin  fear  to  find 
Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 
Of  those  tall  knights,  that  ranged 
about  the  throne, 

Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King, 
with  pure 

Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory, 
And  glory  gain’d,  and  evermore  to 
gain. 


Then  came  a widow  crying  to  the 
King, 

“A  boon,  Sir  King!  Thy  father, 
Uther,  reft 

From  my  dead  lord  a field  with  vio- 
lence : 

For  howsoe’er  at  first  he  proffer’d  gold, 

Yet,  for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our 
eyes, 

We  yielded  not;  and  then  he  reft  us 
of  it 

Perforce,  and  left  us  neither  gold  nor 
field.” 

Said  Arthur,  “ Whether  would  ye  ? 
gold  or  field  ? ” 

To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  “Nay, 
my  lord, 

The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  hus- 
band’s  eye.” 

And  Arthur,  “ Have  thy  pleasant 
field  again, 

And  thrice  the  gold  for  Uther’s  use 
thereof, 

According  to  the  years.  No  boon  is 
here, 

But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven 
true. 

Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his 
father  did 

Would  shape  himself  a right!” 

And  while  she  past 

Came  yet  another  widow  crying  t< 
him, 

“A  boon,  Sir  King!  Thine  enemy 
King,  am  I. 

With  thine  own  hand  thou  slewest  m3 
dear  lord, 

A knight  of  Uther  in  the  Barons’  war 

When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  an< 
fought 

Against  thee,  saying  thouwert  baser 
born. 

I held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  as) 
thee  aught. 

Yet  lo  ! my  husband’s  brother  had  m. 
son 

Thrall’d  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starve 
him  dead ; 

Andstandeth  seized  of  that  inheritanc 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


215 


Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire  hast 
left  the  son. 

So  tho'  I scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for 
hate, 

Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle 
for  me, 

Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for 
my  son.’' 

Then  strode  a good  knight  forward, 
crying  to  him, 

‘ A boon,  Sir  King ! I am  her  kins- 
man, I. 

Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay 
the  man.” 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 
and  cried, 

‘A  boon,  Sir  King!  ev'n  that  thou 
grant  her  none, 

rhis  railer,  that  hath  mock'd  thee  in 
full  hall  — 

^one ; or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve 
and  gag.” 

But  Arthur,  “We  sit  King,  to  help 
the  wrong'd 

?hro'  all  our  realm.  The  woman  loves 
her  lord. 

'eace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves 
and  hates ! 

'he  kings  of  old  had  doom'd  thee  to 
the  flames, 

.urelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged 
; thee  dead, 

.nd  Uther  slit  thy  tongue:  but  get 
thee  hence  — 

est  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of 
old 

eturn  upon  me  ! Thou  that  art  her 
/ kin, 

[ O likewise ; lay  him  low  and  slay 
him  not, 

ut  bring  him  here,  that  I may  judge 
the  right, 

?ccording  to  the  justice  of  the  King: 
hen,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless 

ar  King 

ho  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man 
3 shall  die.” 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of 
Mark, 


A name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 

The  Cornish  king.  In  either  hand  he 
bore 

What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-off  as 
shines 

A field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 

Between  two  showers,  a cloth  of  palest 
gold, 

Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne, 
and  knelt, 

Delivering,  that  his  lord,  the  vassal 
king, 

Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot  ; 

Bor  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his 
grace 

Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Tristram, 
knight, 

And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater 
state, 

Being  a king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 

Would  yield  him  this  large  honor  all 
the  more ; 

So  pray’d  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth 
of  gold, 

In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth, 
to  rend 

In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the 
hearth. 

An  oak-tree  smoulder'd  there.  “ The 
goodly  knight ! 

What!  shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand 
among  these  ? ” 

Bor,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long 
hall 

A stately  pile, — whereof  along  the 
front,- 

Some  blazon'd,  some  but  carven,  and 
some  blank, 

There  ran  a treble  range  of  stony 
shields,  — 

Kose,  and  high-arching  overbrow'd  the 
hearth. 

And  under  every  shield  a knight  was 
named  : 

Bor  this  was  Arthur's  custom  in  his 
hall; 

When  some  good  knight  had  done  one 
noble  deed, 

His  arms  were  carven  only;  but  if 
twain 


216 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


His  arms  were  blazon’d  also;  but  if 
none 

The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without 
a sign 

Saving  the  name  beneath  ; and  Gareth 
saw 

The  shield  of  Gawain  blazon’d  rich  and 
bright, 

And  Modred’s  blank  as  death ; and 
Arthur  cried 

To  rend  the  cloth  and  cast  it  on  the 
hearth. 

“ More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of 
his  crown 

Than  make  him  knight  because  men 
call  him  king. 

The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we 
stay’d  their  hands 

From  war  among  themselves,  but  left 
them  kings ; 

Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merci- 
ful, 

Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers, 
them  we  enroll’d 

Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our 
hall. 

But  Mark  hath  tarnish’d  the  great 
name  of  king, 

As  Mark  would  sully  the  low  state  of 
churl : 

And,  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of 
gold, 

Return,  and  meet,  and  hold  him  from 
our  eyes, 

Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of 
lead, 

Silenced  for  ever — craven  — a man 
of  plots, 

Craft,  poisonous  counsels,  wayside 
ambushings  ■ — 

No  fault  of  thine : let  Kay  the  senes- 
chal 

Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  sat- 
isfied — 

Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the 
hand  be  seen ! ” 

And  many  another  suppliant  crying 
came 

With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by 
beast  and  man, 


And  evermore  a knight  would  ride 
away. 


Last,  Gareth  leaning  both  hands 
heavily 

Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain, 
his  men, 

Approach’d  between  them  toward  the 
King,  and  ask’d, 

“ A boon,  Sir  King  (his  voice  was  all 
ashamed), 

For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hunger- 


worn 

I seem  — leaning  on  these  1 grant  me 
to  serve 

For  meat  and  drink  among  thy 
kitchen-knaves 

A twelvemonth  and  a day,  nor  seek 
my  name. 

Hereafter  I will  fight.” 


To  him  the  King, 

“A  goodly  youth  and  worth  a good- 
lier boon ! 

But  so  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then 
must  Kay, 

The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks,  i 
be  thine.” 


He  rose  and  past ; then  Kay,  a man 
of  mien 

Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels 
itself 

Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

“ Lo  ye  now  ! 

This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some 
Abbey,  where, 

God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis 
enow, 

However  that  might  chance ! but  an 
lie  work, 

Like  any  pigeon  will  I cram  his  crop, 

And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any 
hog.” 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near,  “ Sir 
Seneschal, 

Sleuth-hound  thouknowest,  and  gray, 
and  all  the  hounds ; 

A horse  thou  knowest,  a man  thou  dost 
not  know : 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


217 


Broad  brows  and  fair,  a fluent  hair 
and  fine, 

High  nose,  a nostril  large  and  fine, 
and  hands 

Large,  fair  and  fine ! — some  young 
lad’s  mystery  — 

But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king’s  hall, 
the  boy 

Is  noble-natured.  Treat  him  with  all 
grace, 

Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy 
judging  of  him.” 

Then  Kay,  “ What  murmurest  thou 
of  mystery  ? 

Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the 
King’s  dish  ? 

Kay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like : 
mystery ! 

Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had 
ask’d 

For  horse  and  armor:  fair  and  fine, 
forsooth ! 

Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands  ? but  see 
thou  to  it 

That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot, 
some  fine  day 

Jndo  thee  not  — and  leave  my  man 
to  me.” 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 

The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen-vassalage  ; 

ite  with  young  lads  his  portion  by 
the  door, 

ind  couch’d  at  night  with  grimy 
kitchen-knaves. 

Vnd  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleas- 
antly, 

Sut  Kay  the  seneschal  who  loved  him 
not 

/Vould  hustle  and  harry  him,  and 
labor  him 

leyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth, 
and  set 

"o  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or 
hew  wood, 

>r  grosser  tasks;  and  Gareth  bow’d 
himself 

Tith  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and 
wrought 

J1  kind  of  service  with  a noble 
ease 


That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing 
it. 

And  when  the  thralls  had  talk  among 
themselves, 

And  one  would  praise  the  love  that 
linkt  the  King 

And  Lancelot  — how  the  King  had 
saved  his  life 

In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the 
King’s  — 

For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tourna* 
ment, 

But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battle- 
field— 

Gareth  was  glad.  Or  if  some  othef 
told, 

How  once  the  wandering  forester  at 
dawn, 

Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy 
seas, 

On  Caer-Eryri’s  highest  found  the 
King, 

A naked  babe,  of  whom  the  Prophet 
spake, 

“ He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 

He  passes  and  is  heal’d  and  cannot 
die  ” — 

Gareth  was  glad.  But  if  their  talk 
were  foul, 

Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any 
lark,* 

Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so 
loud 

That  first  they  mock’d,  but,  after, 
reverenced  him. 

Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 

Of  knights,  who  sliced  a red  life-bub- 
bling way 

Thro’  twenty  folds  of  twisted  dragon, 
held 

All  in  a gap-mouth’d  circle  his  good 
mates 

Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands, 

Charm’d;  till  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 
would  come 

Blustering  upon  them,  like  a sudden 
wind 

Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them 
all  apart. 

Or  when  the  thralls  had  sport  among 
themselves, 

So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery, 


218 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or 
stone 

Was  counted  best;  and  if  there 
chanced  a joust, 

So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to 
go, 

Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he 
saw  the  knights 

Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring 
wave, 

And  the  spear  spring,  and  good  horse 
reel,  the  boy 

Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a month  he  wrought  among 
the  thralls  ; 

But  in  the  weeks  that  follow’d,  the 
good  Queen, 

Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him 
swear, 

And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle, 
sent, 

Between  the  in-crescent  and  de-cres- 
cent moon, 

Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from 
his  vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a squire 
of  Lot 

With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney 
once, 

When  both  were  children,  and  in 
lonely  haunts 

Would  scratch  a ragged  oval  on  the 
sand, 

And  each  at  either  dash  from  either 
end  — 

Shame  never  made  girl  redder  than 
Gareth  joy. 

He  laugh’d  ; he  sprang.  “ Out  of  the 
smoke,  at  once 

I leap  from  Satan’s  foot  to  Peter’s 
knee  — 

These  news  be  mine,  none  other’s  — 
nay,  the  King’s  — 

Descend  into  the  city : ” whereon  he 
sought 

The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told 
him  all. 

“ I have  stagger’d  thy  strong  Ga- 
wain  in  a tilt 


For  pastime;  yea,  he  said  it:  joust 
can  I. 

Make  me  thy  knight — in  secret!  let 
my  name 

Be  hidd’n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest, 
I spring 

Like  flame  from  ashes.” 

Here  the  King’s  calm  eye 

Fell  on,  and  check’d,  and  made  him 
flush,  and  bow 

Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer’d 
him, 

“ Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know 
thee  here, 

And  sent  her  wish  that  I would  yield 
thee  thine. 

Make  thee  my  knight  ? my  knights 
are  sworn  to  vows 

Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness, 

And,  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love, 

And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King.” 


Then  Gareth,  lightly  springing  from 
his  knees, 

“ My  King,  for  hardihood  I can  prom- 
ise thee. 

For  uttermost  obedience  make  de- 
mand 

Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 

No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and 
drinks ! 

And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I love  not 
yet, 

But  love  I shall,  God  willing.” 


And  the  King  — 

“ Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret  1 yea, 
but  he, 

Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest 
man, 

And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs 
must  know.” 


“ Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let 
Lancelot  know, 

Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest!” 

And  the  King  — 
“ But  wherefore  would  ye  men  should 
wonder  at  you  ? 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE . 


219 


Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their 
King, 

And  the  deed’s  sake  my  knighthood 
do  the  deed, 

Than  to  be  noised  of.” 

Merrily  Gareth  ask’d, 

“ Have  I not  earn’d  my  cake  in  baking 
of  it  ? 

Let  be  my  name  until  I make  my 
name  ! 

My  deeds  will  speak  : it  is  but  for  a 
day.” 

So  with  a kindly  hand  on  Gareth’s 
arm 

Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half- 
unwillingly 

Loving  his  lusty  youthhood  yielded 
to  him. 

Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot 
privily, 

“ I have  given  him  the  first  quest : he 
is  not  proven. 

Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this 
in  hall, 

Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far 
away. 

Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 

Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta’en 
nor  slain.” 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into 
the  hall 

A damsel  of  High  lineage,  and  a brow 

May-blossom,  and  a cheek  of  apple- 
blossom, 

Hawk-eyes  : and  lightly  was  her  slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a flower ; 

She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and 
cried, 

“ O King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the 
foe  without, 

fSee  to  the  foe  within!  bridge,  ford, 
beset 

By  bandits,  everyone  that  owns  a 
tower 

The  Lord  for  half  a league.  Why  sit 
ye  there  ? 

Best  would  I not,  Sir  King,  an  X were 

king, 


Till  ev’n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as 
free 

From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar- 
cloth 

From  that  best  blood  it  is  a sin  to 
spill.” 

“ Comfort  thyself,”  said  Arthur,  “ I 
nor  mine 

Rest : so  my  knighthood  keep  the 
vows  they  swore, 

The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm 
shall  be 

Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 

What  is  thy  name  ? thy  need  ? ” 

“ My  name  7 ” she  said  — 

“ Lynette  my  name  ; noble ; my  need, 
a knight 

To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 

A lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands. 

And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than 
myself. 

She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous:  a river 

Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living- 
place  ; 

And  o’er  it  are  three  passings,  and 
three  knights 

Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a 
fourth 

And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds 
her  stay’d 

In  her  own  castle,  and  so  besieges  her 

To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed 
with  him  : 

And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou 
send 

To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief 
man 

Sir  Lancelot  whom  he  trusts  to  over- 
throw, 

Then  wed,  with  glory : but  she  will 
not  wed 

Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a holy  life. 

Now  therefore  have  I come  fo? 
Lancelot.” 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth 

ask’d, 

“Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  tfl 
crush 


220 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


All  wrongers  of  the  Realm.  But  say, 
these  four, 

Who  be  they  ? What  the  fashion  of 
the  men  ? ” 

“ They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O Sir 
King, 

The  fashion  of  that  old  knight- 
errantry 

Who  ride  abroad  and  do  but  what 
they  will ; 

Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment, 
such 

As  have  nor  law  nor  king ; and  three 
of  these 

Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves 
the  Day, 

Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and 
Evening-Star, 

Being  strong  fools  ; and  never  a whit 
more  wise 

The  fourth  who  alway  rideth  arm’d 
in  black, 

A huge  man-beast  of  boundlesa  sav- 
agery. 

He  names  himself  the  Night,  and 
oftener  Death, 

And  wears  a helmet  mounted  with  a 
skull, 

And  bears  a skeleton  figured  on  his 
arms, 

To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape 
the  three 

Slain  by  himself  shall  enter  endless 
night. 

And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty 
men, 

And  therefore  am  I come  for  Lance- 
lot.” 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call’d  from  where 
he  rose, 

A head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the 
throng, 

“ A boon,  Sir  King  — this  quest ! ” 
then  — for  he  mark’d 

Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a wounded 
bull  — 

“ Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro’  thy  meats  and  drinks 
am  I. 


And  I can  topple  over  a hundred  such. 

Thy  promise,  King,”  and  Arthur  glanc- 
ing at  him, 

Brought  down  a momentary  brow. 
“ Rough,  sudden, 

And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight— 

Go,  therefore,”  and  all  hearers  were 
amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel’s  forehead  shame, 
pride,  wrath 

Slew  the  May-white : she  lifted  either 
arm, 

“ Pie  on  thee,  King ! I ask’d  for  thy 
chief  knight, 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a kitchen- 
knave.” 

Then  ere  a man  in  hall  could  stay  her, 
turn’d, 

Pled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the 
King, 

Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street, 
and  past 

The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  with- 
out, beside 

The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring 
“ kitchen-knave.” 

Now  two  great  entries  open’d  from 
the  hall, 

At  one  end  one,  that  gave  upon  a 
range 

Of  level  pavement  where  the  King 
would  pace 

At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and 
wood ; 

And  down  from  this  a lordly  stairway 
sloped 

Till  lost  in  blowing  trees  and  tops  ot 
towers ; 

And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past 
the  King. 

But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth 
and  rose 

High  that  the  highest-crested  helm 
could  ride 

Therethro’  nor  graze : and  by  this  entr^ 
fled 

The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to 
this 

Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without 
the  door 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE . 


221 


King  Arthur’s  gift,  the  worth  of  half 
a town, 

A warhorse  of  the  best,  and  near  it 


stood 

The  two  that  out  of  north  had  fol- 
low’d him  : 

This  bare  a maiden  shield,  a casque  ; 
that  held 

The  horse,  the  spear ; whereat  Sir 
Gareth  loosed 

A cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone 
to  heel, 

A cloth  of  roughest  web,  and  cast  it 


down, 

And  from  it  like  a fuel-smother’d  fire, 

That  lookt  half-dead,  brake  bright,  and 
flash’d  as  those 

Dull-coated  things,  that  making  slide 
apart 

Their  dusk  wing-cases,  all  beneath 
there  burns 

A je well’d  harness,  ere  they  pass  and 

%• 

So  Gareth  ere  he  parted  flash’d  in 
arms. 

Then  as  he  donn’d  the  helm,  and  took 
the  shield 

And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a 
spear,  of  grain 

Storm-strengthen’d  on  a windy  site, 
and  tipt 

With  trenchant  steel,  around  him 
slowly  prest 

The  people,  while  from  out  of  kitchen 
came 

The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who 
had  work’d 

Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could 
but  love, 

Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps 
and  cried, 

!‘God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his 
fellowship ! ” 

And  on  thro’  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth 
rode 

Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  with- 
out the  gate. 


So  Gareth  past  with  joy;  but  as  the 
cur 

!lPluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with, 
ere  his  cause 


Be  cool’d  by  fighting,  follows,  being 
named, 

His  owner,  but  remembers  all,  and 

growls 

Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the 
door 

Mutter’d  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he 
used 

To  harry  and  hustle. 

“ Bound  upon  a quest 

With  horse  and  arms  — the  King  hath 
past  his  time  — 

My  scullion  knave  ! Thralls  to  your 
work  again, 

For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle 
mine ! 

Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve 
in  East  % 

Begone  ! — my  knave  ! — belike  and 
like  enow 

Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his 
youth 

So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  his 
prime  — 

Crazed ! how  the  villain  lifted  up  his 
voice, 

Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a kitchen- 
knave. 

Tut : he  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with 
me, 

Till  peacock’d  up  with  Lancelot’s 
noticing. 

Well  — I will  after  my  loud  knave, 
and  learn 

Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master 
yet. 

Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my 
lance 

Hold,  by  God’s  grace,  he  shall  into 
the  mire  — 

Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  Jiis 
craze, 

Into  the  smoke  again.” 

But  Lancelot  said, 

“ Kay,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  against 
the  King, 

For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail, 

But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in 
thee  ? 

Abide : take  counsel ; for  this  lad  is 
great 


222 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance 
and  sword.” 

“ Tut,  tell  not  me,”  said  Kay,  “ye  are 
overfine 

To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish 
courtesies  : ” 

Then  mounted,  on  thro’  silent  faces 
rode 

Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond 
the  gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  linger- 
ing yet 

Mutter’d  the  damsel,  “ Wherefore  did 
the  King 

Scorn  me  ? for,  were  Sir  Lancelot 
lackt,  at  least 

He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of 
those 

Who  tilt  for  lady’s  love  and  glory 
here, 

Rather  than  — O sweet  heaven!  0 
fie  upon  him  — 

His  kitchen-knave.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 

(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier 
than  he) 

Shining  in  arms,  “Damsel,  the  quest 
is  mine. 

Lead,  and  I follow.”  She  thereat,  as 
one 

That  smells  a f oul-flesh’d  agaric  in  the 
holt, 

And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  wood- 
land thing, 

Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender 
nose 

With  petulant  thumb  and  finger, 
shrilling,  “ Hence ! 

Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen- 
grease. 

And  look  who  comes  behind,”  for 
there  was  Kay. 

“ Knowest  thou  not  me  1 thy  master  ? 
I am  Kay. 

We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth.” 

And  Gareth  to  him, 

“ Master  no  more ! too  well  I know 
thee,  ay  — 


The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur’s 
hall.” 

“ Have  at  thee  then,”  said  Kay : they 
shock’d,  and  Kay 

Fell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried 
again, 

“ Lead,  and  I follow,”  and  fast  away 
she  fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to 

fly 

Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good 
horse 

Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the 
beat, 

Perforce  she  stay’d,  and  overtaken 
spoke. 

“ What  doest  thou,  scullion,  in  my 
fellowship  ? 

Deem’st  thou  that  I accept  thee  aught 
the  more 

Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some 
device 

Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappi- 
ness, 

Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  tliy 
master  — thou  ! — 

Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon  ! 
— to  me 

Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  be- 
fore.” 

“ Damsel,”  Sir  Gareth  answer’d 
gently,  “ say 

Whate’er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe’er  ye 
say, 

I leave  not  till  I finish  this  fair  quest, 

Or  die  therefore.” 

“ Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it  ? 

Sweet  lord,  how  like  a noble  knight  he 
talks  ! 

The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the 
manner  of  it. 

But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met 
with,  knave, 

And  then  by  such  a one  that  thou  for 
all 

The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 

Shalt  not  once  dare  tc  look  him  in  the 
face.” 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


223 


“ 1 shall  assay, ” said  Gareth  with  a 
smile 

That  madden’d  her,  and  away  she 
flash’d  again 

Down  the  long  avenues  of  a boundless 
wood, 

4md  Gareth  following  was  again  be- 
knaved. 

“ Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I have  miss’d 
the  only  way 

Wliere  Arthur’s  men  are  set  along  the 
wood ; 

The  wood  is  nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as 
leaves : 

if  both  be  slain,  I am  rid  of  thee ; but 
yet, 

hr  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit 
of  thine  ? 

fight,  an  thou  canst : I have  miss’d 
the  only  way.” 

So  till  the  dusk  that  follow’d  even- 
song 

lode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled ; 
’hen  after  one  long  slope  was 
mounted,  saw, 

lowl-shaped,  thro’  tops  of  many  thou- 
sand pines 

l gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
■?o  westward — in  the  deeps  whereof 
a mere, 

lound  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle- 
owl, 

Inder  the  half-dead  sunset  glared ; 

3 and  shouts 

ascended,  and  there  brake  a serving- 
man 

'lying  from  out  the  black  wood,  and 
crying, 

They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast 
him  in  the  mere.” 

'hen  Gareth,  “ Bound  am  I to  right 
, the  wrong’d, 

ut  straitlier  bound  am  I to  bide  with 
I thee.” 

nd  when  the  damsel  spake  contempt- 
t uously, 

Lead,  and  I follow,”  Gareth  cried 
i again, 

Follow,  I lead ! ” so  down  among  the 

pines 


He  plunged ; and  there,  blackshadow’d 
nigh  the  mere, 

And  mid-thigh-deep  in  bulrushes  and 
reed, 

Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a seventh 
along, 

A stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him 
in  it. 

Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but 
three 

Fled  thro’ the  pines;  and  Gareth  loosed 
the  stone 

From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere 
beside 

Tumbled  it;  oilily  bubbled  up  the 
mere. 

Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on 
free  feet 

Set  him,  a stalwart  Baron,  Arthur’s 
friend. 

“Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these 
caitiff  rogues 

Had  wreak’d  themselves  on  me  ; good 
cause  is  theirs 

To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever 
been 

To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  ver- 
min here 

Drown  him,  and  with  a stone  about 
his  neck  ; 

And  under  this  wan  water  many  of 
them 

Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  the 
stone, 

And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a grimly 
light 

Dance  on  the  mere.  Good  now,  ye 
have  saved  a life 

Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of 
this  wood. 

And  fain  would  I reward  thee  worship- 
fully. 

What  guerdon  will  ye  ? ” 

Gareth  sharply  spake, 

“None!  for  the  deed’s  sake  have  I 
done  the  deed, 

In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 

But  wilt  thou  yield  this  damsel  hap 
borage  ? ” 


224 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Whereat  the  Baron  saying,  “ I well 
believe 

Vou  be  of  Arthur’s  Table/’  a ligfit 
laugh 

Broke  from  Lynette,  “ Ay,  truly  of  a 
truth, 

And  in  a sort,  being  Arthur’s  kitchen- 
knave  ! — 

But  deem  not  I accept  thee  aught  the 
more, 

Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy 
spit 

Down  on  a rout  of  craven  foresters. 

A thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter’d 
them. 

Nay  — for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen 
still. 

But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harbor- 
age, 

Well.” 

So  she  spake.  A league  beyond 
the  wood, 

All  in  a full-fair  manor  and  a rich, 

His  towers  where  that  day  a feast  had 
been 

Held  in  high  wall,  and  many  a viand 
left, 

And  many  a costly  cate,  received  the 
three. 

And  there  they  placed  a peacock  in 
his  pride 

Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron 
set 

Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she 
rose. 

“Meseems,  that  here  is  much  dis- 
courtesy, 

Setting  this  knave,  Lord  Baron,  at  my 
side. 

Hear  me  — this  morn  I stood  in 
Arthur’s  hall, 

And  pray’d  the  King  would  grant  me 
Lancelot 

To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and 
Night — 

The  last  a monster  unsubduable 

Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I 
call’d  — 

Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless  kitchen- 
knave, 


‘The  quest  is  mine;  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro’  thy  meats  and 
drinks  am  I.’ 

Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad 
replies, 

‘ Go  therefore,’  and  so  gives  the  quest 
to  him  — 

Him  — here  — a villain  fitter  to  stick 
swine 

Than  ride  abroad  redressing  women’s 
wrong, 

Or  sit  beside  a noble  gentlewoman.” 

Then  half-ashamed  and  part- 
amazed,  the  lord 

Now  look’d  at  one  and  now  at  other, 
left 

The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his 
pride, 

And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board, 

Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then 
began. 

“ Friend,  whether  thou  be  kitchen- 
knave,  or  not, 

Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden’s  fantasy, 

And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the 
King, 

Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 

I ask  not : but  thou  strikest  a strong 
stroke, 

For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  there- 
withal, 

And  saver  of  my  life ; and  therefore 
now, 

For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with, 
weigh 

Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  dam- 
sel back 

To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 
King. 

Thy  pardon ; I but  speak  for  thine 
avail, 

The  saver  of  my  life.” 

And  Gareth  said, 

“Full  pardon,  but  I follow  up  the 
quest, 

Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death 
and  Hell.” 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


22  5 


So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose 
life  he  saved 

Had,  some  brief  space,  convey’d  them 
on  their  way 

And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir 
Gareth  spake, 

u Lead,  and  I follow.”  Haughtily  she 
replied, 

“ I fly  no  more  : I allow  thee  for  an 
hour. 

Lion  and  stoat  have  isled  together, 
knave, 

In  time  of  flood.  Nay,  furthermore, 
methinks 

Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.  Back 
wilt  thou,  fool  ? 

For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 

And  slay  thee  : then  will  I to  court 
again, 

And  shame  the  King  for  only  yield- 
ing me 

My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his 
hearth.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer’d  cour- 
teously, 

“ Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I will  do  my 
deed. 

Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou 
wilt  find 

My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers  who  lay 

Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the 
King’s  son.” 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those 
long  loops 

Wherethro’  the  serpent  river  coil’d, 
they  came. 

Rough-thicketed  were  the  banks  and 
steep;  the  stream 

Full,  narrow ; this  a bridge  of  single 
arc 

Took  at  a leap ; and  on  the  further 
side 

Arose  a silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 

In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily 
in  hue, 

(Save  that  the  dome  was  purple,  and 
above, 

Crimson,  a slender  banneret  fluttering. 


And  tlierebefore  the  lawless  warrior 
paced 

Unarm’d,  and  calling,  “Damsel,  is 
this  he, 

The  champion  thou  hast  brought  from 
Arthur’s  hall  1 

For  whom  we  let  thee  pass.”  “ Nay, 
nay,”  she  said, 

“ Sir  Morning-Star.  The  King  in  utter 
scorn 

Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent 
thee  here 

His  kitchen-knave  : and  look  thou  to 
thyself : 

See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly, 

And  slay  thee  unarm’d:  he  is  not 
knight  but  knave.” 

Then  at  his  call,  “ O daughters  of 
the  Dawn, 

And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star, 
approach, 

Arm  me,”  from  out  the  silken  curtain- 
folds 

Bare-footed  and  bare-headed  three 
fair  girls 

In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came  : their 
feet 

In  dewy  grasses  glisten’d;  and  the 
hair 

All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with 
gem  # 

Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine. 

These  arm’d  him  in  blue  arms,  and 
gave  a shield 

Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning 
star. 

And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the 
knight, 

Who  stood  a moment  ere  his  horse 
was  brought, 

Glorying ; and  in  the  stream  beneath 
him,  shone 

Immingled  with  Heaven’s  azure  wav 
eringly, 

The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked 
feet, 

His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the 
star. 

Then  she  that  watch’d  him 
“ Wherefore  stare  ye  so  ? 


226 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE . 


Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear  : there  yet  is 
time : 

Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to 
horse. 

Who  will  cry  shame  ? Thou  art  not 
knight  but  knave.” 

Said  Gareth,  “ Damsel,  whether 
knave  or  knight, 

Far  liefer  had  I fight  a score  of  times 

Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  re- 
vile. 

Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who 
fights  for  thee ; 

But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they 
send 

That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine 
arms,  I know 

That  I shall  overthrow  him.” 

And  he  that  bore 

The  star,  being  mounted,  cried  from 
o’er  the  bridge, 

“ A kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn 
of  me ! 

Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn 
with  scorn. 

For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further 
wrong 

Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his 
horse 

And  arms,  and  so  Return  him  to  the 
King. 

Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly, 
knave. 

Avoid : for  it  beseemeth  not  a knave 

To  ride  with  such  a lady.” 

“ Dog,  thou  liest. 

I spring  from  loftier  lineage  than 
thine  own.” 

He  spake , and  all  at  fiery  speed  the 
two 

Shock’d  on  the  central  bridge,  and 
either  spear 

Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight 
at  once. 

Hurl’d  as  a stone  from  out  of  a cata- 
pult 

Beyond  his  horse’s  crupper  and  the 
bridge, 


Fell,  as  if  dead ; but  quickly  rose  and 
drew, 

And  Gareth  lash’d  so  fiercely  with  his 
brand 

He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down 
the  bridge, 

The  damsel  crying,  “ Well-stricken, 
kitchen-knave ! ” 

Till  Gareth’s  shield  was  cloven;  but 
one  stroke 

Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on 
the  ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall’n,  “ Take  not  my 
life : I yield.” 

And  Gareth,  “ So  this  damsel  ask  it 
of  me 

Good  — I accord  it  easily  as  a grace.” 

She  reddening,  “ Insolent  scullion  : l 
of  thee  ? 

I bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask’d!  ” 

“Then  shall  he  die.”  And  Gareth 
there  unlaced 

His  helmet  as  to  slay  him,  but  she 
shriek’d, 

“Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to 
slay 

One  nobler  than  thyself.”  “ Damsel, 
thy  charge 

Is  an  abounding  pleasure  to  me. 
Knight, 

Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command. 
Arise 

And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur’s  hall 
and  say 

His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee. 
See  thou  crave 

His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his 
laws. 

Myself,  when  I return,  will  plead  for 
thee. 

Thy  shield  is  mine  — farewell ; and, 
damsel,  thou, 

Lead,  and  I follow.” 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 

Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake, 
“ Methought, 

Knave,  when  I watch’d  thee  striking 
on  the  bridge 

The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon 
me 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Ill 


A little  faintlier : but  the  wind  hath 
changed : 

I scent  it  twenty-fold.”  And  then  she 
sang, 

‘“O  morning  star’  (not  that  tall  felon 
there 

Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 

Or  some  device,  hast  foully  over- 
thrown), 

f 0 morning  star  that  smilest  in  the 
blue, 

0 star,  my  morning  dream  hath 
proven  true, 

Smile  sweetly,  thou ! my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me/ 

“ But  thou  begone,  take  counsel, 
and  away, 

For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a 
ford  — 

The  second  brother  in  their  fool’s 
parable  — 

Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to 
boot. 

Care  not  for  shame : thou  art  not 
knight  but  knave.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer’d, 
laughingly, 

“ Parables  ? Hear  a parable  of  the 
knave. 

When  I was  kitchen-knave  among  the 
rest 

Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my 
co-mates 

Own’d  a rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast 
his  coat, 

‘Guard  it,’  and  there  was  none  to 
meddle  with  it. 

And  such  a coat  art  thou,  and  thee 
the  King 

Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a dog 
am  I, 

To  worry,  and  not  to  flee  — and  — 
knight  or  knave  — 

The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as 
full  knight 

Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 

Toward  thy  sister’s  freeing.” 

“ Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 

Ay,  knave,  because  thou  strikes!  as  a 
knight. 


Being  but  knave,  I hate  thee  all  the 
more.” 

“ Fair  damsel,  you  should  worship 
me  the  more, 

That,  being  but  knave,  I throw  thine 
enemies.” 

“Ay,  ay,”  she  said, “but  thou  shalt 
meet  thy  match.” 

So  when  they  touch’d  the  second 
river-loop, 

Huge  on  a huge  red  horse,  and  all  in 
mail 

Burnish’d  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noon- 
day Sun 

Beyond  a raging  shallow.  As  if  the 
flower, 

That  blows  a globe  of  after  arrowlets, 

Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash’d 
the  fierce  shield, 

All  sun  ; and  Gareth’s  eyes  had  flying 
blots 

Before  them  when  he  turn’d  from 
watching  him. 

He  from  beyond  the  roaring  shallow 
roar’d, 

“ What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my 
marches  here  1 ” 

And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill’d 
again, 

“ Here  is  a kitchen-knave  from 
Arthur’s  hall 

Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and 
hath  his  arms.” 

“ Ugh ! ” cried  the  Sun,  and  vizoring 
up  a red 

And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolish- 
ness, 

Push’d  horse  across  the  foamings  of 
the  ford, 

Whom  Gareth  met  midstream : no 
room  was  there 

For  lance  or  tourney-skill  : four 
strokes  they  struck 

With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty ; 
the  new  knight 

Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ; but  as 
the  Sun 

Heaved  up  a ponderous  arm  to  strike 
the  fifth, 


228 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the 
stream,  the  stream 

Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash’d 
away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart 
the  ford ; 

So  drew  him  home ; but  he  that  fought 
no  more, 

As  being  all  bone-batter’d  on  the  rock, 

Yielded ; and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the 
King. 

“ Myself  when  I return  will  plead  for 
thee.” 

“ Lead,  and  I follow.”  Quietly  she 
led. 

“ Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel, 
changed  again  ? ” 

“ Nay,  not  a point : nor  art  thou  victor 
here. 

There  lies  a ridge  of  slate  across  the 
ford; 

His  horse  thereon  stumbled  — ay,  for 
I saw  it. 

“ * 0 Sun  ’ (not  this  strong  fool 
whom  thou,  Sir  Knave, 

Hast  overthrown  thro’  mere  unhappi- 
ness), 

■ 0 S?*n,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or 
pain, 

O moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 

Shine  sweetly:  twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.’ 

“ What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong 
or  of  love  ? 

Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly 
born, 

Thou  hast  a pleasant  presence.  Yea, 
perchance,  — 

“ ‘ 0 dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the 
sun, 

O dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is 
done, 

Blow  sweetly : twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.’ 

“ What  knowest  thou  of  flowers, 
except,  belike. 


To  garnish  meats  with  ? hath  not  our 
good  King 

Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of 
kitchendom, 

A foolish  love  for  flowers  ? what  stick 
ye  round 

The  pasty  ? wherewithal  deck  the 
boar’s  head  ? 

Flowers  ? nay,  the  boar  hath  rose 
maries  and  bay. 

“ * O birds,  that  warble  to  the  morn- 
ing sky, 

O birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes 

by, 

Sing  sweetly:  twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.’ 

“ What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark, 
mavis,  merle. 

Linnet  ? what  dream  ye  when  they 
utter  forth 

May-music  growing  with  the  growing 
light, 

Their  sweet  sun-worship  1 these  be  for 
the  snare 

(So  runs  thy  fancy)  these  be  for  the 
spit, 

Larding  and  basting.  See  thou  have 
not  now 

Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and 

fly- 

There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their 
allegory.” 

For  there  beyond  a bridge  of  treble 
bow, 

All  in  a rose-red  from  the  west,  and 
all 

Naked  it  seem’d,  and  glowing  in  the 
broad 

Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,  the 
knight, 

That  named  himself  the  Star  of 
Evening,  stood. 

And  Gareth,  “ Wherefore  waits  the 
madman  there 

Naked  in  open  dayshine  ? ” “ Nay,” 

she  cried, 

“Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden’d 
skins 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


229 


rhat  fit  him  like  his  own;  and  so  ye 
cleave 

His  armor  off  him,  these  will  turn  the 
blade.” 

Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o’er 
the  bridge, 

“ 0 brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here  so 
low  ? 

Thy  ward  is  higher  up : but  have  ye 
slain 

The  damsel’s  champion  ? ” and  the 
damsel  cried, 

“No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from 
Arthur’s  heaven 

With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 

For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have 
gone  down 

Before  this  youth;  and  so  wilt  thou, 
Sir  Star; 

Art  thou  not  old  1 ” 

“ Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 

Old,  with  the  might  and  breath  of 
twenty  boys.” 

Said  Gareth,  “Old,  and  over-bold  in 
brag ! 

But  that  same  strength  which  threw 
the  Morning  Star 

Can  throw  the  Evening.” 

Then  that  other  blew 

A hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 

“ Approach  and  arm  me  ! ” With  slow 
steps  from  out 

An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many- 
stain’d 

Pavilion,  forth  a grizzled  damsel 
came, 

And  arm’d  him  in  old  arms,  and 
brought  a helm 

With  but  a drying  evergreen  for  crest, 

And  gave  a shield  whereon  the  Star  of 
Even 

Half-tarnish’d  and  half-bright,  his 
emblem,  shone. 

But  when  it  glitter’d  o’er  the  saddle- 

L bow, 

They  madly  hurl’d  together  on  the 
bridge  ; 


And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted, 
drew, 

There  met  liim  drawn,  and  overthrew 
him  again, 

But  up  like  fire  he  started : and  as 
oft 

As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on 

his  knees, 

So  many  a time  he  vaulted  up  again ; 

Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  great 
heart, 

Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in 
vain, 

Labor’d  within  him,  for  he  seem’d  as 
one 

That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 

To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a life, 

But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and 
cry, 

“Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst 
not  put  us  down ! ” 

He  half  despairs ; so  Gareth  seem’d  to 
strike 

Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the 
while,  * 

“Well  done,  knave-knight,  well 
stricken,  0 good  knight' 
knave  — 

O knave,  as  noble  as  any  of  all  the 
knights  — 

Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.  I have 
prophesied  — 

Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  Table 
Round — 

His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  hard- 
en’d skin  — 

Strike  — strike  — the  wind  will  never 
change  again.” 

And  Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier 
smote, 

And  hew’d  great  pieces  of  his  armor 
off  him, 

But  lash’d  in  vain  against  the  harden’d 
skin, 

And  could  not  wholly  bring  him 
under,  more 

Than  loud  Southwesterns,  rolling 
ridge  on  ridge, 

The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  And  dips 
and  springs 

For  ever ; till  at  length  Sir  Gareth’s 
brand 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


230 


Clash’d  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the 
hilt. 

“ I have  thee  now ; ” but  forth  that 
other  sprang, 

And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his 
wiry  arms 

Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his 
mail, 

Strangled,  but  straining  ev’n  his  utter- 
most 

Cast,  and  so  hurl’d  him  headlong  o’er 
the  bridge 

Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and 
cried, 

“ Lead,  and  I follow.” 

But  the  damsel  said, 

“ I lead  no  longer ; ride  thou  at  my 
side ; 

Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen- 
knaves. 

“ ‘ O trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy 
plain, 

0 rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain, 

Shine  sweetly:  thrice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.’ 

“ Sir,  — and,  good  faith,  I fain  had 
added  — Knight, 

But  that  I heard  thee  call  thyself  a 
knave,  — 

Shamed  am  I that  I so  rebuked, 
reviled, 

Missaid  thee ; noble  I am ; and 
thought  the  King 

Scorn’d  me  and  mine ; and  now  thy 
pardon,  friend, 

For  thou  hast  ever  answer’d  cour- 
teously. 

And  wholly  bold  thou  art,  and  meek 
withal 

As  any  of  Arthur’s  best,  but,  being 
knave, 

Hast  mazed  my  wit : I marvel  what 
thou  art. 

“ Damsel,”  he  said,  “ you  be  not  all 
to  blame, 

Saving  that  you  mistrusted  our  good 
King 


Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  you, 
asking,  one 

Not  fit  to  cope  your  quest.  You  said 
your  say ; 

Mine  answer  was  my  deed.  Good 
sooth ! I hold 

He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half-man, 
nor  meet 

To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who 
lets 

His  heart  be  stirr’d  with  any  foolish 
heat 

At  any  gentle  damsel’s  waywardness. 

Shamed  ? care  not ! thy  foul  sayings 
fought  for  me : 

And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair, 
methinks 

There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot, 
his  great  self, 

Hath  force  to  quell  me.” 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 

When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  mel- 
ancholy, 

Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretch- 
ing, dreams 

Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool. 

Then  turn’d  the  noble  damsel  smiling 
at  him, 

And  told  him  of  a cavern  hard  at 
hand, 

Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and 
good  red  wine 

Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyo- 
nors 

Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited 
him. 

Anon  they  past  a narrow  comb 
wherein 

Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures, 
knights  on  horse 

Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly-wan- 
ing hues. 

“ Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a hermit  once 
was  here, 

Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion’d  on 
the  rock 

The  war  of  Time  against  the  soul  of 
man. 

And  yon  four  fools  have  suck’d  their 
allegory 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


231 


From  these  damp  walls,  and  taken 
but  the  form. 

Know  ye  not  these ?"  and  Gareth 
lookt  and  read  — 

In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 

Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  stream- 
ing Gelt  — 

“ Phosphorus,"  then  “ Meridies  ” — 
“ Hesperus  ’’  — 

“Nox" — “Mors,"  beneath  five  fig- 
ures, armed  men, 

Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward 
all, 

And  running  down  the  Soul,  a Shape 
that  fled 

With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment  and 
loose  hair, 

For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit’s 
cave. 

“Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it. 
Look, 

Who  comes  behind  ? " 

For  one  — delay’d  at  first 

Thro’  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 

To  Camelot,  then  by  what  thereafter 
chanced, 

The  damsel’s  headlong  error  thro’  the 
wood  — 

] Sir  Lancelot,  having  swum  the  river- 
loops — 

E His  blue  shield-lions  cover’d  — softly 
drew 

■ Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw 
the  star 

1 Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth’s  turning  to 
him,  cried, 

“ Stay,  felon-knight,  I avenge  me  for 
my  friend." 

And  Gareth  crying  prick’d  against  the 
cry; 

But  when  they  closed  — in  a moment 
— at  one  touch 

Of  that  skill’d  spear,  the  wonder  of 
the  world  — 

Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 

That  when  he  found  the  grass  within 
his  hands 

He  laugh’d;  the  laughter  jarr’d  upon 
Lynette  : 

Harshly  she  ask’d  him,  “ Shamed  and 
overthrown. 


And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen- 
knave, 

Why  laugh  ye?  that  ye  blew  your 
boast  in  vain  ? " 

“Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the 
son 

Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Bel- 
licent, 

And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford, 

And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown 
by  whom 

I know  not,  all  thro’  mere  unhappi- 
ness — 

Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappi- 
ness — 

Out,  sword  ; we  are  thrown  ! " And 
Lancelot  answer’d,  “ Prince, 

0 Gareth  — thro’  the  mere  unhappi- 
ness 

Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee,  not  to 
harm, 

Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee 
whole, 

As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted 
him." 

Then  Gareth,  “Thou — Lancelot! 
— thine  the  hand 

That  threw  me  ? An  some  chance  to 
mar  the  boast 

Thy  brethren  of  thee  make  — which 
could  not  chance  — 

Had  sent  thee  down  before  a lesser 
spear, 

Shamed  had  I been,  and  sad  — C 
Lancelot — thou  ! " 

Whereat  the  maiden,  petulant, 
“ Lancelot, 

Why  came  ye  not,  when  call’d  ? and 
wherefore  now 

Come  ye,  not  call’d  ? I gloried  in  my 
knave, 

Who  being  still  rebuked,  would  answer 
still 

Courteous  as  any  knight — but  now, 
if  knight, 

The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool’d 
and  trick’d, 

And  only  wondering  wherefore  play’d 
upon: 


232 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE . 


And  doubtful  whether  I and  mine  be 
scorn'd. 

Where  should  be  truth  if  not  in 
Arthur's  hall. 

In  Arthur's  presence  ? Knight, 
knave,  prince  and  fool, 

I hate  thee  and  for  ever." 


And  Lancelot  said, 

“ Blessed  be  thou,  Sir  Gareth  ! knight 
art  thou 

To  the  King’s  best  wish.  O damsel, 
be  you  wise 

To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  over- 
thrown ? 

Thrown  have  I been,  nor  once,  but 
many  a time. 

Victor  from  vanquish’d  issues  at  the 
last, 

And  overthrower  from  being  over- 
thrown. 

With  sword  we  have  not  striven  ; and 
thy  good  horse 

And  thou  are  weary ; yet  not  less  I 
felt 

Thy  manhood  thro'  that  wearied  lance 
of  thine. 

W ell  hast  thou  done ; for  all  the 
stream  is  freed, 

And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on 
his  foes, 

And  when  reviled,  hast  answer’d 
graciously, 

And  makest  merry  when  overthrown. 
Prince,  Knight, 

Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our 
Table  Round ! ” 


And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette 
he  told 

The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she 
said, 

“ Ay  well  — ay  well  — for  worse  than 
being  fool'd 

Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.  A 
cave. 

Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats 
and  drinks 

And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for 
fire- 


But  all  about  it  flies  a honeysuckle. 

Seek,  till  we  find."  And  when  they 
sought  and  found, 

Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his 
life 

Past  into  sleep  ; on  whom  the  maiden 
gazed. 

“ Sound  sleep  be  thine ! sound  cause 
to  sleep  hast  thou. 

W ake  lusty ! seem  I not  as  tender  to 
him 

As  any  mother  ? Ay,  but  such  a one 

As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her 
child, 

And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him 
asleep  — 

Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the 
honeysuckle 

In  the  hush’d  night,  as  if  the  world 
were  one 

Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentle- 
ness ! 

O Lancelot,  Lancelot  " — and  she 
clapt  her  hands  — 

“ Pull  merry  am  I to  find  my  goodly 
knave 

Is  knight  and  noble.  See  now,  sworn 
have  I, 

Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me 
pass, 

To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle 
with  him. 

Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee 
first ; 

Who  doubts  thee  victor  ? so  will  my 
knight-knave 

Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accom- 
plishment." 


Said  Lancelot,  “ Peradventure  he, 
you  name, 

May  know  my  shield.  Let  Gareth, 
an  he  will, 

Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my 
charger,  fresh, 

Not  to  be  spurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as 
well 

As  he  that  rides  him."  “Lancelot- 
like," she  said, 

“ Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as 
in  all." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


233 


And  Gareth,  wakening,  fiercely 
clutch’d  the  shield ; 

u Ramp  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on 
whor^  all  spears 

Are  rotten  sticks ! ye  seem  agape  to 
roar ! 

Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your 
lord ! — 

Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I care 
for  you. 

0 noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on 

these 

Streams  virtue  — fire  — thro’ one  that 
will  not  shame 

Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under 
shield. 

Hence  : let  us  go.” 

Silent  the  silent  field 

They  traversed.  Arthur’s  harp  tho’ 
summer-wan, 

In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds, 
allured 

The  glance  of  Gareth  dreaming  on 
his  liege. 

A star  shot : “ Lo,”  said  Gareth,  “ the 
foe  falls  ! ” 

An  owl  whoopt : “ Hark  the  victor 
pealing  there ! ” 

Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 

Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent 
him,  crying, 

“ Yield,  yield  him  this  again : ’tis  he 
must  fight : 

1 curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro’  yes- 

terday 

Reviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  on 
Lancelot  now 

To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield : won- 
ders ye  have  done ; 

Miracles  ye  cannot : here  is  glory  enow 

In  having  flung  the  three  : I see  thee- 
maim’d, 

Mangled:  I swear  thoucanst  not  fling 
the  fourth.” 

“ And  wherefore,  damsel  ? tell  me 
all  ye  know. 

You  cannot  scare  me ; nor  rough  face, 
or  voice. 

Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless 
savagery 

Appal  me  from  the  quest.” 


“ Nay,  Prince,”  she  cried, 

“God  wot,  I never  look’d  upon  the 
face, 

Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by 
day; 

But  watch’d  him  have  I like  a phan- 
tom pass 

Chilling  the  night:  nor  have  I heard 
the  voice. 

Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a 
page 

Who  came  and  went,  and  still  re- 
ported him 

As  closing  in  himself  . he  strength  of 
ten, 

And  when  his  anger  tave  him,  mas- 
sacring 

Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl — yea,  the 
soft  babe ! 

Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow’d 
infant  flesh, 

Monster ! O Prince,  I went  for  Lance- 
lot first, 

The  quest  is  Lancelot’s  : give  him 
back  the  shield.” 


Said  Gareth  laughing,  “ An  he  fight 
for  this, 

Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man  : 
Thus  — and  not  else  ! ” 


But  Lancelot  on  hiiji  urged 

All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 

When  one  might  meet  a mightier  than 
himself ; 

How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance, 
sword  and  shield, 

And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force 
might  fail 

With  skill  and  fineness.  Instant  were 
his  words. 

Then  Gareth,  “Here  be  rules, 
know  but  one  — 

To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to 
win. 

Yet  have  I watch’d  thee  victor  in  the 
joust, 

And  seen  thy  way.”  “ Heaven  heb? 
thee,”  sigh’d  Lynette 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE . 


73  4 


Then  for  a space,  and  under  cloud 
that  grew 

To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars, 
they  rode 

In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey 
halt, 

Lifted  an  arm,  and  softly  whisper’d, 
“ There.” 

And  all  the  three  were  silent  seeing, 
pitch’d 

Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 

A huge  pavilion  like  a mountain  peak 

Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  on  the 
marge, 

Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a long 
black  horn 

Beside  it  hanging ; which  Sir  Gareth 
graspt, 

And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder 
him, 

Bent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro’  all 
the  horn. 

Echo’d  the  walls  ; a light  twinkled  ; 
anon 

Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again 
he  blew ; 

Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up 
and  down 

And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows 
past ; 

Till  high  above  him,  circled  with  her 
maids, 

The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a window  stood, 

Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to 
him 

White  hands,  and  courtesy  ; but  when 
the  Prince 

Three  times  had  blown — -after  long 
hush  — at  last  — 

The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 

Thro’  those  black  foldings,  that  which 
housed  therein. 

High  on  a nightblack  horse,  in  night- 
black  arms, 

With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren 
ribs  of  Death, 

And  crown’d  with  fleshless  laughter  — 
some  ten  steps  — 

In  the  half-light  — thro’  the  dim  dawn 
— advanced 

The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and 
spake  no  word. 


But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indig 
nantly, 

“Pool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the 
strength  of  ten, 

Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy 
God  hath  given, 

But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee 
more, 

Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 

Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with, 
and  the  clod, 

Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with 
mantling  flowers 

As  if  for  pity  ? ” But  he  spake  no 
word ; 

Which  set  the  horror  higher : a maiden 
swoon’d ; 

The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands 
and  wept, 

As  doom’d  to  be  the  bride  of  Night 
and  Death ; 

Sir  Gareth’s  head  prickled  beneath  his 
helm  ; 

And  ev’n  Sir  Lancelot  thro’  his  warm 
blood  felt 

Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark’d  him 
were  aghast. 

At  once  Sir  Lancelot’s  charger 
fiercely  neigh’d, 

And  Death’s  dark  war-horse  bounded 
forward  with  him. 

Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the 
terror,  saw 

That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and 
slowly  rose. 

But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split 
the  skull. 

Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and 
lay. 

Then  with  a stronger  buffet  he  clove 
the  helm 

As  throughly  as  the  skull;  and  out 
from  this 

Issued  the  bright  face  of  a blooming 
boy 

Fresh  as  a flower  new-born,  and  crying, 
“ Knight, 

Slay  me  not : my  three  brethren  bade 
me  do  it, 

To  make  a horror  all  about  the 
house. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


235 


And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyon- 
ors. 

They  never  dream’d  the  passes  would 
be  past.” 

Answer’d  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one 

Not  many  a moon  his  younger,  “ My 
fair  child, 

What  madness  made  thee  challenge 
the  chief  knight 

Of  Arthur’s  hall?  ” “ Fair  Sir,  they 
bade  me  do  it. 

They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the 
King’s  friend. 

They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere 
on  the  stream, 

They  never  dream’d  the  passes  could 
be  past.” 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from 
underground; 

And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house, 
with  dance 

And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over 
Death, 

As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 

And  horrors  only  proven  a blooming 
boy. 

So  large  mirth  lived  and  Gareth  won 
the  quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older 
times 

Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 

But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 
x- 

The  brave  Geraint,  a knight  of 
Arthur’s  court, 

A tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 

jpf  that  great  Order  of  the  Table 
Round, 

Rad  married  Enid,  Yniol’s  only  child, 

And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light 
of  Heaven. 

And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 

(At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by 
night 

Yith  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so 
loved  Geraint 


To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day, 

In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in 

gems. 

And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband’s 

eye, 

Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in 
a state 

Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted 
him 

In  some  fresh  splendor ; and  the  Queen 
herself, 

Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service 
done, 

Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own 
white  hands 

Array’d  and  deck’d  her,  as  the  love- 
liest, 

Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the 
court. 

And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with 
true  heart 

Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the 
best 

And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 

And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so 
close, 

Long  in  their  common  love  rejoiced 
Geraint. 

But  when  a rumor  rose  about  the 
Queen, 

Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 

Tho’  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet 
was  heard 

The  world’s  loud  whisper  breaking 
into  storm, 

Not  less  Geraint  believed  it ; and  there 
fell 

A horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 

Thro’  that  great  tenderness  for  Guin- 
evere, 

Had  suffer’d,  or  should  suffer  any 
taint 

In  nature : wherefore  going  to  the 
King, 

He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  prince 
dom  lay 

Close  on  the  borders  of  a territory, 

Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff 
knights, 

Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 

Of  Justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a 
law : 


236 


GERAIJVT  AND  ENID. 


And  therefore,  till  the  King  himself 
should  please 

To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 
his  realm, 

He  craved  a fair  permission  to  depart, 
And  there  defend  his  marches;  and 
the  King 

Mused  for  a little  on  his  plea,  but,  last, 
Allowing  it,  the  Prince  and  Enid  rode, 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them,  to 
the  shores 

Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 
land ; 

Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was 
wife 

True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 
He  compass’d  her  with  sweet  observ- 
ances 

And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and 
grew 

Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  King, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt, 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 
Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its 
cares. 

And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to 
her. 

And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they 
met 

In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  com- 
panies, 

Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of 
him 

As  of  a prince  whose  manhood  was  all 
gone, 

And  molten  down  in  mere  uxorious- 
ness. 

And  this  she  gather’d  from  the  peo- 
ple’s eyes : 

This  too  the  women  who  attired  her 
head, 

To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  bound- 
less love, 

Told  Enid,  and  they  sadden’d  her  the 
more : 

And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell 
'Geraint, 

But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy ; 
While  he  that  watch’d  her  sadden,  was 
the  more 

Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a taint. 


At  last,  it  chanced  that  on  a summer 
morn 

(They  sleeping  each  by  either)  the 
new  sun 

Beat  thro’  the  blindless  casement  of 
the  room, 

And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his 
dreams ; 

Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet 
aside, 

And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  hi: 
throat, 

The  massive  square  of  his  heroic 
breast, 

And  arms  on  which  the  standing 
muscle  sloped, 

As  slopes  a wild  brook  o’er  a little 
stone, 

Running  too  vehemently  to  break 
upon  it. 

And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  the 
couch, 

Admiring  him,  and  thought  within 
herself. 

Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as 
he? 

Then,  like  a shadow,  past  the  people’s 
talk 

And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 

Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over 
him, 

Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously  she 
said : 

“ O noble  breast  and  all-puissant 
arms, 

Ami  the  cause,  I the  poor  cause  that 
men 

Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force 
is  gone? 

I am  the  cause,  because  I dare  not 
speak 

And  tell  him  what  I think  and  what 
they  say. 

And  yet  I hate  that  he  should  linger 
here ; 

I cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his 
name. 

Far  liefer  had  I gird  his  harness  on 
him, 

And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand 
by, 


ubRAiR  T AND  ENID, 


237 


And  watch  his  mightful  hand  striking 
great  blows 

At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the 
world. 

Far  better  were  I laid  in  the  dark 
earth, 

Not  hearing  anymore  his  noble  voice, 

Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear 
arms, 

And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in 
his  eyes, 

Than  that  my  lord  thro'  me  should 
suffer  shame. 

Am  I so  bold,  and  could  I so  stand 

by, 

And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the 
strife, 

Or  maybe  pierced  to  death  before 
mine  eyes, 

And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I 
think, 

And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his 
force 

Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy  ? 

0 me,  I fear  that  I am  no  true  wife." 


Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she 
spoke, 

And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made 
her  weep 

True  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked 
breast, 

Fnd  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great 
mischance 

Te  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later 
words, 

^nd  that  she  fear'd  she  was  not  a true 
wife. 

^.nd  then  he  thought,  “ In  spite  of  all 
my  care, 

ror  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all 
my  pains, 

>he  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and  I see  her 

Feeping  for  some  gay  knight  in 
Arthur’s  hall." 

'hen  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced 
her  too  much 

'o  dream  she  could  be  guilty  of  foul 
act, 

dght  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted 
the  pang 


That  makes  a man,  in  the  sweet  face 
of  her 

Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  mis- 
erable. 

At  this  he  hurl'd  his  huge  limbs  out 
of  bed, 

And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake 
and  cried, 

“ My  charger  and  her  palfrey ; " then 
to  her, 

“ I will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness; 

For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  t& 
win, 

I have  not  fall'n  so  low  as  some  would 
wish. 

And  thou,  put  on  thy  worst  and  mean- 
est dress 

And  ride  with  me."  And  Enid  ask'd, 
amazed, 

“If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her 
fault." 

But  he,  “ I charge  thee,  ask  not,  but 
obey." 

Then  she  bethought  her  of  a faded 
silk, 

A faded  mantle  and  a faded  veil, 

And  moving  toward  a cedarn  cabinet, 

Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  rever- 
ently 

With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between 
the  folds, 

She  took  them,  and  array'd  herself 
therein, 

Remembering  when  first  he  came  on 
her 

Brest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 
her  in  it, 

And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the 
dress, 

And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 

Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 


For  Arthur  on  the  Whits  un  tide 
before 

Field  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 

There  on  a day,  he  sitting  high  in 
hall, 

Before  him  came  a forester  of  Dean, 

Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  vi  a 
hart 


238 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky- 
white, 

First  seen  that  day  : these  things  he 
told  the  King. 

Then  the  good  King  gave  order  to  let 
blow 

His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow 
morn. 

And  when  the  Queen  petition’d  for  his 
leave 

To  see  the  hunt,  allow’d  it  easily. 

So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were 
gone. 

But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn, 

Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming 
of  her  love 

For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the 
hunt ; 

But  rose  at  last,  a single  maiden  with 
her, 

Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and 
gain’d  the  wood ; 

There,  on  a little  knoll  beside  it, 
stay’d 

Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds;  but 
heard  instead 

A sudden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince 
Geraint, 

Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting- 
dress 

Nor  weapon,  save  a golden-hilted 
brand, 

Came  quickly  flashing  thro’  the  shal- 
low ford 

Behind  them,  and  so  gallop’d  up  the 
knoll. 

A purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 

There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest 
gold, 

Sway’d  round  about  him,  as  he  gal- 
lop’d up 

To  join  them,  glancing  like  a dragon- 
fly 

In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 

Low  bow’d  the  tributary  Prince,  and 
she, 

Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all 
grace 

Of  womanhood  and  queenhood, 
answer’d  him  : 

“Late,  late,  Sir  Prince,”  she  said, 

“ later  than  we  1 ” 


“Yea,  noble  Queen,”  he  answer’d, 
“ and  so  late 

That  I but  come  like  you  to  see  the 
hunt, 

Not  join  it.”  “ Therefore  wait  with 
me,”  she  said ; 

“ For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere, 

There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall 
hear  the  hounds  : 

Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our 
feet.” 

And  while  they  listen’d  for  the  dis 
tant  hunt, 

And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 

King  Arthur’s  hound  of  deepest 
mouth,  there  rode 

Full  slowly  by  a knight,  lady,  and 
dwarf ; 

Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg’d  latest,  and 
the  knight 

Had  vizor  up,  and  show’d  a youthful 
face, 

Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  linea- 
ments. 

And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his 
face 

In  the  King’s  hall,  desired  his  name, 
and  sent 

Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the 
dwarf ; 

Who  being  vicious,  old  and  irritable, 

And  doubling  all  his  master’s  vice  of 
pride, 

Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should 
not  know. 

“ Then  will  I ask  it  of  himself,”  she 
said. 

“ Nay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shalt  not,” 
cried  the  dwarf ; 

“ Thou  art  not  worthy  ev’n  to  speak 
of  him ; ” 

And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward 
the  knight, 

Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she 
return’d 

Indignant  to  the  Queen ; whereat 
Geraint 

Exclaiming,  “Surely  I will  learn  the 
name,” 

Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd 

it  of  him. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


239 


Who  answer’d  as  before;  and  when 
the  Prince 

Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward 
the  knight, 

Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut 
his  cheek. 

The  Prince’s  blood  spirted  upon  the 
scarf, 

Dyeing  it;  and  his  quick,  instinctive 
hand 

Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him : 

But  he,  from  his  exceeding,  manful- 
ness 

And  pure  nobility  of  temperament, 

Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a worm, 
refrain’d 

From  ev’n  a word,  and  so  returning 
said: 

“I  will  avenge  this  insult,  noble 
Queen, 

Done  in  your  maiden’s  person  to  your- 
self : 

And  I will  track  this  vermin  to  their 
earths : 

For  tho’  I ride  unarm’d,  I do  not  doubt 

To  find,  at  some  place  I shall  come  at, 
arms 

On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge  ; and,  being 
found, 

Then  will  I fight  him,  and  will  break 
his  pride, 

And  on  the  third  day  will  again  be 
here, 

So  that  I be  not  fall’n  in  fight.  Fare- 
well.” 

“Farewell,  fair  Prince,’*  answer’d 
the  stately  Queen. 

“ Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in 
all ; 

Ai.d  may  you  light  on  all  things  that 
you  love, 

And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first 
you  love : 

But  ere  you  wed  with  any,  bring  your 
bride, 

A.nd  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a 
king, 

5Tea,  tho’  she  were  a beggar  from  the 
hedge, 

Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like 

the  sun.” 


And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking 
that  he  heard 

The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  fai 
horn, 

A little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 

A little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode, 

By  ups  and  downs,  thro’  many  a grassy 
glade 

And  valley,  with  fixt  eye  following 
the  three. 

At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of 
wood, 

And  climb’d  upon  a fair  and  even 
ridge, 

And  show’d  themselves  against  the 
sky,  and  sank. 

And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  under 
neath 

Beheld  the  long  street' of  a little  town 

In  a long  valley,  on  one  side 
whereof, 

White  from  the  mason’s  hand,  a for- 
tress rose ; 

And  on  one  side  a castle  in  decay, 

Beyond  a bridge  that  spann’d  a dry 
ravine  : 

And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a 
noise 

As  of  a broad  brook  o’er  a shingly  bed 

Brawling,  or  like  a clamor  of  the  rooks 

At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the 
night. 


And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the 
three, 

And  enter’d,  and  were  lost  behind  the 
walls. 

“ So/*  thought  Geraint,  “ I have 
track’d  him  to  his  earth.” 

And  down  the  long  street  riding 
wearily, 

Found  every  hostel  full,  and  every- 
where 

Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the 
hot  hiss 

And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth 
who  scour’d 

His  master’s  armor;  and  of  such  a 

one 

He  ask’d,  “What  means  the  tumult 
in  the  town  ? ” 


240 


GERA1N7'  AND  ENID. 


Who  told  him,  scouring  still,  “ The 
sparrow-hawk ! ” 

Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient 
churl, 

Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping 
beam, 

Went  sweating  underneath  a sack  of 
corn, 

Ask’d  yet  once  more  what  meant  the 
hubbub  here  7 

Who  answer’d  gruffly,  "Ugh!  the 
sparrow-hawk.” 

Then  riding  further  past  an  armorer’s, 

Who,  with  back  turn’d,  and  bow’d 
above  his  work, 

Sat  riveting  a helmet  on  his  knee, 

He  put  the  self-same  query,  but  the 
man 

Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at 
him,  said : 

“ Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  spar- 
row-hawk 

Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners.” 

Whereat  Geraint  flash’d  into  sudden 
spleen : 

“ A thousand  pips  eat  up  your  spar- 
row-hawk ! 

Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing’d  nothings 
peck  him  dead ! 

Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your 
bourg 

The  murmur  of  the  world ! What  is 
it  to  me  ? 

0 wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and 
all, 

Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow- 
hawks  ! 

Speak,  if  ye  be  not  like  the  rest, 
hawk-mad, 

Where  can  I get  me  harborage  for 
the  night? 

And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my 
enemy  ? Speak ! ” 

Whereat  the  armorer  turning  all 
amazed 

And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 

Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in 
hand 

And  answer’d,  “ Pardon  me,  O stran- 
ger knight ; 

We  hold  a tourney  here  to-morrow 
morn. 


And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the 
work. 

Arms  ? truth  ! I know  not : all  are 
wanted  here. 

Harborage  ? truth,  good  truth,  I know 
not,  save, 

It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol’s,  o’er  the 
bridge 

Yonder.”  He  spoke  and  fell  to  work 
again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a little  spleen- 
ful yet, 

Across  the  bridge  that  spann’d  the 
dry  ravine. 

There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His  dress  a suit  of  fray’d  magnifi- 
cence, 

Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and 
said: 

“ Whither,  fair  son  ? ” to  whom  Ger- 
aint replied, 

“ O friend,  I seek  a harborage  for  the 
night.” 

Then  Yniol,  “Enter  therefore  and 
partake 

The  slender  entertainment  of  a house 

Once  rich,  now  poor,  but  ever  open- 
door’d.” 

“ Thanks,  venerable  friend,”  replied 
Geraint ; 

“ So  that  you  do  not  serve  me  spar- 
row-hawks 

For  supper,  I will  enter,  I will  eat 

With  all  the  passion  of  a twelve 
hours’  fast.” 

Then  sigh’d  and  smiled  the  hoary- 
headed  Earl, 

And  answer’d,  “ Graver  cause  than 
yours  is  mine 

To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the 
sparrow-hawk : 

But  in,  go  in  ; for  save  yourself  de 
sire  it, 

We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev’n  m 
jest.” 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle 
court, 

His  charger  trampling  many  a prickl)1 
star 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


24) 


f sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken 
stones. 

e look’d  and  saw  that  all  was 
ruinous. 

ere  stood  a shatter’d  archway 
plumed  with  fern ; 

fed  here  had  fall’n  a great  part  of 
a tower, 

"hole,  like  a crag  that  tumbles  from 
the  cliff, 

nd  like  a crag  was  gay  with  wilding 
liowers  : 

nd  high  above  a piece  of  turret  stair, 
"orn  by  the  feet  that  now  were 
silent,  wound 

are  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy- 
stems 

aspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy- 
fibred  arms, 

nd  suck’d  the  joining  of  the  stones, 
and  look’d 

knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a 
grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle 
court, 

te  voice  of  Enid,  YnioTs  daughter, 
rang 

sar  thro’  the  open  casement  of  the 
hall, 

lging ; and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a 
bird, 

ard  by  the  lander  in  a lonely  isle, 
>ves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird 
it  is 

at  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and 
make 

njecture  of  the  plumage  and  the 
form  ; 

the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved 
Geraint ; 

d made  him  like  a man  abroad  at 
morn 

ten  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of 
men 

nes  flying  over  many  a windy  wave 
Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
aks  from  a coppice  gemm’d  with 
f.  green  and  red, 
i he  suspends  his  converse  with  a 
| friend, 

it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands, 


To  think  or  say,  “ There  is  the  night- 
ingale ” ; 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought 
and  said, 

“ Here,  by  God’s  grace,  is  the  one 
voice  for  me.” 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang 
was  one 

Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid 
sang : 

“ Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel 
and  lower  the  proud  ; 

Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro’  sunshine, 
storm,  and  cloud ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 
nor  hate. 

“Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel 
with  smile  or  frown; 

With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or 
down ; 

Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great. 

“ Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of 
many  lands; 

Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our 
own  hands ; 

For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his 

* fate. 

“ Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the 
staring  crowd ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in 
the  cloud  ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 
nor  hate.” 

“ Hark,  by  the  bird’s  song  ye  may 
learn  the  nest,” 

Said  Yniol;  “enter  quickly.”  Enter' 
ing  then, 

Right  o’er  a mount  of  newly-fallen 
stones, 

The  dusky-rafter’d  many-cobweb’d 
hall, 

He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim 
brocade ; 

And  near  her,  like  a blossom  vermeil- 
white, 


242 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


That  lightly  breaks  a faded  flower- 
sheath, 

Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded 
silk. 

Her  daughter.  In  a moment  thought 
Geraint, 

“ Here  by  God’s  rood  is  the  one  maid 
for  me.” 

But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary 
Earl : 

“Enid,  the  good  knight’s  horse  stands 
in  the  court ; 

Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn, 
and  then 

Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and 
wine ; 

And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we 
may. 

Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great.” 

He  spake : the  Prince,  as  Enid  past 
him,  fain 

To  follow,  strode  a stride,  but  Yniol 
caught 

His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said, 
“ Forbear ! 

Rest ! the  good  house,  tho’  ruin’d,  O 
my  son, 

Endures  not  that  her  guest  should 
serve  himself.” 

And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the 
house 

Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the 
stall ; 

And  after  went  her  way  across  the 
bridge, 

And  reach’d  the  town,  and  while  the 
Prince  and  Earl 

Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with 
one, 

A youth,  that  following  with  a costrel 
bore 

The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh 
and  wine. 

And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to 
make  them  cheer, 

Aril  in  her  veil  unfolded,  manchet 
bread. 


And  then,  because  their  hall  must  als 
serve 

For  kitchen,  boil’d  the  flesh,  an 
spread  the  board, 

And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  tl 
three. 

And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  servic 
able, 

Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermor 

To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  litt 
thumb, 

That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid 
down  : 

But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Gerair 

For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  h 
veins, 

Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  res 

On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-wor 

Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusl 
hall; 

Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoa 
Earl: 

“ Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I pray  yo 
courtesy ; 

This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he  ? te 
me  of  him. 

His  name  ? but  no,  good  faith,  I w 
not  have  it : 

For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late 
saw 

Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  yo 
town, 

White  from  the  mason’s  hand,  th 
have  I sworn 

From  his  own  lips  to  have  it  — I £ 
Geraint 

Of  Devon  —for  this  morning  when  t 
Queen 

Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  t 
name, 

His  dwarf,  a vicious  under-shap 
thing,  . r . 

Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  s 
return’d 

Indignant  to  the  Queen ; and  thei 

swore 

That  I would  track  this  caitiff  to 
hold, 

And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  a 
have  it  of  him. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


243 


id  all  unarm’d  I rode,  and  thought 
to  find 

ms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men 
are  mad ; 

ley  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their 
bourg 

r the  great  wave  that  echoes  round 
the  world ; 

ey  would  not  hear  me  speak : but 
if  ye  know 

here  I can  light  on  arms,  or  if  your- 
self 

ould  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I 
have  sworn 

at  I will  break  his  pride  and  learn 
his  name, 

renging  this  great  insult  done  the 
Queen.” 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol,  “Art  thou 
he  indeed, 

raint,  a name  far-sounded  among 
men 

r noble  deeds  7 and  truly  I,  when 
first 

saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the 
bridge, 

It  ye  were  somewhat,  yea,  and  by 
your  state 

d presence  might  have  guess’d  you 
1 one  of  those 

at  eat  in  Arthur’s  hall  at  Camelot. 
r speak  I now  from  foolish  flat- 
, tery ; 

r this  dear  child  hath  often  heard 
me  praise 

ur  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  I 
paused 

th  ask’d  again,  and  ever  loved  to 
hear ; 

grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of 
wrong : 

lever  yet  had  woman  such  a pair 
suitors  as  this  maiden;  first  Lim- 
ours, 

:reature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 
wine, 

link  even  when  he  woo’d;  and  be 
he  dead 

now  not,  but  he  passed  to  the  wild 

land. 


The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow 
hawk, 

My  curse,  my  nephew  — I will  not  let 
his  name 

Slip  from  my  lips  if  I can  help  it  — 
he, 

When  I that  knew  him  fierce  and  tur- 
bulent 

Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride 
awoke ; 

And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the 
mean, 

He  sow’d  a slander  in  the  common  ear, 

Affirming  that  his  father  left  him 
gold, 

And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  ren- 
der’d to  him ; 

Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men 
who  served 

About  my  person,  the  more  easily 

Because  my  means  were  somewhat 
broken  into 

Thro’  open  doors  and  hospitality ; 

Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in 
the  night 

Before  my  Enid’s  birthday,  sack’d  my 
house ; 

From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted 
me ; 

Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my 
friends, 

For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me 
yet; 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle 
here, 

Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me 
soon  to  death, 

But  that  his  pride  too  much  despise? 
me : 

And  I myself  sometimes  despise  my- 
self ; 

For  I have  let  men  be,  and  have  their 
way; 

Am  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used 
my  power : 

Nor  know  I whether  I be  very  base 

Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 

Or  very  foolish ; only  this  I know, 

That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 

I seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or 
limb, 

But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently/ 


244 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


“Well  said,  true  heart,”  replied 
Geraint,  “ but  arms, 

That  if  the  sparrow-hawk,  this 
nephew,  fight 

In  next  day's  tourney  I may  break 
his  pride.” 

And  Yniol  answer'd,  “ Arms,  indeed, 
but  old 

And  .rusty,  old  and  rusty,  Prince 
Geraint, 

Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  thine  ask- 
ing, thine. 

But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man 
tilt, 

Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be 
there. 

Two  forks  are  fixt  into  the  meadow 
ground, 

And  over  these  is  placed  a silver 
wand, 

And  over  that  a golden  sparrow-hawk, 

The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest 
there. 

And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in 
field 

Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his 
side, 

And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  there- 
upon, 

Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of 
bone 

Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with 
him, 

And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 

Has  earn’d  himself  the  name  of  spar- 
row-hawk. 

But  thou,  that  hast  no  lady,  canst  not 
fight.” 

To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  all 
bright  replied, 

Leaning  a little  toward  him,  “Thy 
leave ! 

Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O noble  host, 

For  this  dear  child,  because  I never 
saw, 

Tho'  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our 
time, 

Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so 
fair. 

And  if  I fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 


Untarnish’d  as  before  ; but  if  I live, 

So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  ui 
termost, 

As  I will  make  her  truly  my  tru 
wife.” 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol 
heart 

Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  bette 
days. 

And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Eni 
there, 

(Who  hearing  her  own  name  ha 
stol’n  away) 

But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  ter 
derly 

And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  h 
said, 

“ Mother,  a maiden  is  a tender  thin: 

And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  unde 
stood. 

Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go 
rest 

Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  towai 
the  Prince.” 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Ea 
and  she 

With  frequent  smile  and  nod  depai 
ing  found, 

Half  disarray’d  as  to  her  rest,  the  giij 

Whom  first  she  kiss’d  on  either  chee 
and  then 

On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a han 

And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  li 
face, 

And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  tJ 
hall, 

Proving  her  heart : but  never  light  a^ 
shade 

Coursed  one  another  more  on  op 
ground 

Beneath  a troubled  heaven,  than  r 
and  pale 

Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  he 

While  slowly  falling  as  a scale  tl; 
falls, 

When  weight  is  added  only  grain 
grain, 

Sank  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gen 
breast ; 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


245 


or  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a 
word, 

apt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of 
it; 

3 moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
he  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail’d  to 
draw 

he  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but 
lay 

ontemplating  her  own  unworthiness ; 
nd  when  the  pale  and  bloodless  east 
began 

0 quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and 

raised 

er  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand 
they  moved 

own  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts 
were  held, 

ad  waited  there  for  Yniol  and 
Geraint. 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and 
when  Geraint 

sheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him, 
e felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily 
force, 

imself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could 

1 move 

le  chair  of  Idris.  Yniol’s  rusted 
3 arms 

ere  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro’ 
r these 

incelike  his  bearing  shone;  and 
errant  knights 

id  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the 
! town 

3w’d  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the 
lists. 

id  there  they  fixt  the  forks  into  the 
ground, 

id  over  these  they  placed  the  silver 
I wand, 

d over  that  the  golden  sparrow- 
hawk. 

en  Yniol’s  nephew,  after  trumpet 
blown, 

ike  to  the  lady  with  him  and  pro- 
claim’d, 

advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the 
fair, 

: I these  two  years  past  have  won 
it  for  thee, 


The  prize  of  beauty.”  Loudly  spake 
the  Prince, 

“ Forbear:  there  is  a worthier,”  and 
the  knight 

With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much 
disdain 

Turn’d,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all 
his  face 

Glow’d  like  the  heart  of  a great  fire 
at  Yule, 

So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  crying 
out, 

“ Do  battle  for  it  then,”  no  more  ; and 
thrice 

They  clash’d  together,  and  thrice  they 
brake  their  spears. 

Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing, 
lash’d  at  each 

So  often  and  with  such  blows,  that  all 
the  crowd 

Wonder’d,  and  now  and  then  from 
distant  walls 

There  came  a clapping  as  of  phantom 
hands. 

So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they 
breathed,  and  still 

The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the 
blood 

Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain’d 
their  force. 

But  either’s  force  was  match’d  till 
Yniol’s  cry, 

“ Kemember  that  great  insult  done  the 
Queen,” 

Increased  Geraint’s,  who  heaved  his 
blade  aloft, 

And  crack’d  the  helmet  thro’,  and  bit 
the  bone, 

And  fell’d  him,  and  set  foot  upon  his 
breast, 

And  said,  “Thy  name  ? ” To  whom 
the  fallen  man 

Made  answer,  groaning,  “ Edyrn,  son 
of  Nudd ! 

Ashamed  am  I that  I should  tell  it 
thee. 

My  pride  is  broken  : men  have  seen 
my  fall.” 

“ Then,  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd,”  replied 
Geraint, 

“These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or 
else  thou  diest. 


246 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


First,  thou  thyself,  with  damsel  and 
with  dwarf, 

Shalt  ride  to  Arthur’s  court,  and  com- 
ing there, 

Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  the 
Queen, 

And  shalt  abide  her  judgment  on  it; 
next, 

Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to 
thy  kin. 

These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or 
thou  shalt  die.” 

And  Edyrn  answer’d,  “ These  things 
will  I do, 

For  I have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 

And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my 
pride 

Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my 
fall!” 

And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur  s 
court, 

And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him 
easily. 

And  being  young,  he  changed  and 
came  to  loathe 

His  crime  of  traitor,  slowly  drew  him- 
self 

Bright  from  his  old  dark  life,  and  fell 
at  last 

In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the 
King. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the 
hunting-morn 

Made  a low  splendor  in  the  world,  and 
wings 

Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she 
lay 

With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow 
light, 

Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the 
birds. 

Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her 
promise  given 

No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince 
Geraint  — 

So  bent  he  seem’d  on  going  the  third 

day, 

He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  prom- 
ise given  — 

To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the 
court, 


And  there  be  made  known  to  the 
stately  Queen, 

And  there  be  wedded  with  all  cere 
mony. 

At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  hei 
dress, 

And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look’d 
so  mean. 

For  as  a leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem’cj 
The  dress  that  now  she  look’d  on  t< 
the  dress 

She  look’d  on  ere  the  coming  o: 
Geraint. 

And  still  she  look’d,  and  still  th 
terror  grew 

Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadfu] 
thing,  a court, 

All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk  : 
And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  sh 
said : 

“ This  noble  prince  who  won  oui 
earldom  back, 

So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire.: 
Sweet  heaven,  how  much  I shall  dis 
credit  him ! 

Would  he  could  tarry  with  us  hefi 
awhile, 

But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us, 
Bent  as  he  seem’d  on  going  this  thir 
day, 

To  seek  a second  favor  at  his  hands 
Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a day  or  tw< 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  fing< 
lame, 

Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a dre 
All  branch’d  and  flower’d  with  gol 
a costly  gift 

Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  tl 
night 

Before  her  birth  day,  three  sad  yea 
ago, 

That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyrn  sack 
their  house, 

And  scatter’d  all  they  had  to  all  t 
winds : 

For  while  the  mother  show’d  it,  a 
the  two 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


247 


fere  turning  and  admiring  it,  the 
work 

o both  appear'd  so  costly,  rose  a cry 
hat  Edyrn’s  men  were  on  them,  and 
they  fled 

fith  little  save  the  jewels  they  had 
on, 

/Rich  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought 
them  bread : 

nd  Edyrn’s  men  had  caught  them  in 
their  flight, 

.nd  placed  them  in  this  ruin;  and 
she  wish’d 

he  Prince  had  found  her  in  her 
ancient  home ; 

hen  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past, 
.nd  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she 
knew; 

.nd  last  bethought  her  how  she  used 
to  watch, 

ear  that  old  home,  a pool  of  golden 
carp ; 

.nd  one  was  patch’d  and  blurr’d  and 
lustreless 

.mong  his  burnish’d  brethren  of  the 
pool; 

.nd  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
f that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 
Lnd  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep 
again ; 

.nd  dreamt  herself  was  such  a faded 
form 

.mong  her  burnish’d  sisters  of  the 
pool ; 

!ut  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a king ; 
.nd  tho’  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  she 
knew 

'hat  all  was  bright;  that  all  about 
were  birds 

>f  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work ; 
’hat  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that 
look’d 

lach  like  a garnet  or  a turkis  in  it ; 
aid  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court 
went 

n silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state ; 
md  children  of  the  King  in  cloth  of 
gold 

rlanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol’d  down 
the  walks ; 

md  while  she  thought  “ They  will 
not  see  me,”  came 


A stately  queen  whose  name  was 
Guinevere, 

And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of 
gold 

Ran  to  her,  crying,  “ If  we  have  fish 
at  all 

Let  them  be  gold;  and  charge  the 
gardeners  now 

To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the 
pool, 

And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die.” 

And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized 
on  her, 

And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her 
heart 

All  overshadow’d  by  the  foolish 
dream, 

And  lo ! it  was  her  mother  grasping 
her 

To  get  her  well  awake;  and  in  her 
hand 

A suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she 
laid 

Elat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exult- 
ingly : 

“ See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the 
colors  look, 

How  fast  they  hold  like  colors  of  a 
shell 

That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the 
wave. 

Why  not?  It  never  yet  was  worn,  I 
trow : 

Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  ye 
know  it.” 

And  Enid  look’d,  but  all  confused 
at  first, 

Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish 
dream : 

Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  re- 
joiced, 

And  answer’d,  “ Yea,  I know  it;  your 
good  gift, 

So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night : 

Your  own  good  gift ! ” “ Yea,  surely,” 
said  the  dame, 

“ And  gladly  given  again  this  happy 
morn. 

For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yes- 
terday, 


248 


GERAINT  AND  ENID . 


Went  Yniol  thro’  the  town,  and  every- 
where 

He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our 
house 

All  scatter’d  thro’  the  houses  of  the 
town ; 

And  gave  command  that  all  which 
once  was  ours 

Should  now  be  ours  again : and  yes- 
ter-eve, 

While  ye  were  talking  sweetly  with 
your  Prince, 

Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my 
hand, 

For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of 

us, 

Because  we  have  our  earldom  hack 
again. 

And  yester-eve  I would  not  tell  you 
of  it, 

But  kept  it  for  a sweet  surprise  at 
morn. 

Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a sweet  surprise  1 

For  I myself  unwillingly  have  worn 

My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have 
yours, 

And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 

Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a goodly 
house, 

With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous 
fare, 

And  page,  and  maid,  and  squire,  and 
seneschal, 

And  pastime  both  of  hawk  and  hound, 
and  all 

That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 

Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a goodly 
house ; 

But  since  our  fortune  swerved  from 
sun  to  shade, 

And  all  thro’  that  young  traitor,  cruel 
need 

Constrain’d  us,  but  a better  time  has 
come ; 

So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better 
fits 

Our  mended  fortunes  and  a Prince’s 
bride : 

For  tho’  ye  won  the  prize  of  fairest 
fair, 

And  tho’  I heard  him  call  you  fairest 
fair, 


Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 

She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than 
old. 

And  should  some  great  court-lady 
say,  the  Prince 

Hath  pick’d  a ragged-robin  from  the 
hedge, 

And  like  a madman  brought  her 
to  the  court, 

Then  were  ye  shamed,  and,  worse, 
might  shame  the  Prince 

To  whom  we  are  beholden;  but  I 
know, 

When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at 
her  best, 

That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho’ 
they  sought 

Thro’  all  the  provinces  like  those  of 
old 

That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has 
her  match.” 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out 
of  breath ; 

And  Enid  listen’d  brightening  as  she 

lay ; 

Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star 
of  morn 

Parts  from  a bank  of  snow,  and  by 
and  by 

Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden 
rose, 

And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed 
herself, 

Help’d  by  the  mother’s  careful  hand 
and  eye, 

Without  a mirror,  in  the  gorgeous 
gown  ; 

Who,  after,  turn’d  her  daughter  round, 
and  said, 

She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  sc 
fair ; 

And  call’d  her  like  that  maiden  in  the 
tale, 

Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out 
of  flowers, 

And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cas 
sivelaun, 

Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Komar 
Caesar  first 

Invaded  Britain,  “ But  we  beat  hiu 
back, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


249 


As  this  great  Prince  invaded  us,  and 
we, 

Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him 
with  joy. 

And  I can  scarcely  ride  with  you  to 
court, 

For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and 
wild ; 

But  Yniol  goes,  and  I full  oft  shall 
dream 

I see  my  princess  as  I see  her  now, 
Clothed  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among 
the  gay/’ 

But  while  the  women  thus  rejoiced, 
Geraint 

Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall, 
and  call’d 

For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid 

gay 

In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately 
Queen, 

He  answer’d:  “Earl,  entreat  her  by 
my  love, 

Albeit  I give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded 
silk.” 

Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went; 
it  fell 

Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty 
corn : 

For  Enid,  all  abash’d  she  knew  not 
why, 

Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good 
mother’s  face, 

But  silently,  in  all  obedience, 

Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her, 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broid- 
er’d  gift, 

And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit 
again, 

And  so  descended.  Never  man  re- 
joiced 

More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus 
attired ; 

And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at 
her 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver’s  toil, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eye- 
lid fall, 


But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satis- 
fied ; 

Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother’s 
brow, 

Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and 
sweetly  said, 

“ O my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth 
or  grieved 

At  thy  new  son,  for  my  petition  to 
her. 

When  late  I left  Caerleon,  our  great 
Queen, 

In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were 
so  sweet, 

Made  promise,  that  whatever  bride  I 
brought, 

Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun 
in  Heaven. 

Thereafter,  when  J reach’d  this  ruin’d 
hall, 

Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 

I vow’d  that  could  I gain  her,  our  fair 
Queen, 

No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your 
Enid  burst 

Sunlike  from  cloud  — and  likewise 
thought  perhaps, 

That  service  done  so  graciously  would 
bind 

The  two  together;  fain  I would  the 
two 

Should  love  each  other:  how  can 
Enid  find 

A nobler  friend  ? Another  thought 
was  mine ; 

I came  among  you  here  so  suddenly, 

That  tho’  her  gentle  presence  at  the 
lists 

Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that 
I was  loved, 

I doubted  whether  daughter’s  tender- 
ness. 

Or  easy  nature,  might  not  let  itself 

Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her 
weal ; 

Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her 
own  self 

Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  oven 
bore 

Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusk^ 
hall; 


250 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


And  such  a sense  might  make  her 
long  for  court 

And  all  its  perilous  glories : and  I 
thought, 

That  could  I someway  prove  such 
force  in  her 

Link’d  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at 
a word 

( No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast 
aside 

A splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to 
her, 

And  therefore  dearer;  or  if  not  so 
new, 

Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the 
power 

Of  intermitted  usage ; then  I felt 

That  I could  rest,  a rock  in  ebbs  and 
flows, 

Fixt  on  her  faith.  Now,  therefore,  I 
do  rest, 

A prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy, 

That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can 
cross 

Between  us.  Grant  me  pardon  for 
my  thoughts : 

And  for  my  strange  petition  I will 
make 

Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day, 

When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your 
costly  gift 

Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with, 
on  her  knees, 

Who  knows  ? another  gift  of  the  high 
God, 

Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn’d  to 
lisp  you  thanks.” 

He  spoke : the  mother  smiled,  but 
half  in  tears, 

Then  brought  a mantle  down  and 
wrapt  her  in  it, 

And  claspt  and  kiss’d  her,  and  they 
rode  away. 

Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere 
had  climb’d 

The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high 
crest,  they  say, 

Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 

And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow 
sea ; 


But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 

Look’d  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the 
vale  of  Usk, 

By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them 
come ; 

And  then  descending  met  them  at  the 
gates, 

Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a 
friend, 

And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince’s 
bride, 

And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like 
the  sun ; 

And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon 
gay, 

For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high 
saint, 

They  twain  were  wedded  with  all 
ceremony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year’s 
Whitsuntide. 

But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk, 

Remembering  how  first  he  came  on 
her, 

Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 
her  in  it, 

And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the 
dress, 

And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as 
himself 

Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said 
to  her, 

“ Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest 
dress,”  she  found 

And  took  it,  and  array’d  herself 
therein. 


ii. 

O purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a life-long  trouble  for  our- 
selves, 

By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for 
true ; 

Here,  thro’  the  feeble  twilight  of  this 
world 


GERAINT  AND  ENJD. 


251 


Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and 
reach 

That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are 
seen ! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issu- 
ing forth 

That  morning,  when  they  both  had 
got  to  horse, 

Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passion- 

And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round 
his  heart, 

Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break 
perforce 

Upon  a head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said : 

“ Not  at  my  side.  I charge  thee  ride 
before, 

Ever  a good  way  on  before  ; and  this 

I charge  thee,  on  thy  duty  as  a wife, 

Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to 
me, 

No,  not  a word!”  and  Enid  was 
aghast ; 

And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three 
paces  on, 

When  crying  out,  “Effeminate  as  I 
am, 

I will  not  fight  my  way  with  gilded 
arms, 

All  shall  be  iron  ; ” he  loosed  a mighty 
purse, 

Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl’d  it  toward 
the  squire. 

So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of 
home 

Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing, 
strown 

With  gold  and  scatter’d  coinage,  and 
the  squire 

Chafing  his  shoulder : then  he  cried 
again, 

“To  the  wilds!”  and  Enid  leading 
down  the  tracks 

Thro’  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on, 
they  past 

The  marches,  and  by  bandit-haunted 
holds, 

Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places 
of  the  hern, 

And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they 
rode : 


Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but 
slacken’d  soon : 

A stranger  meeting  them  had  surely 
thought 

They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look’d 
so  pale, 

That  each  had  suffer’d  some  exceed- 
ing wrong. 

For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 

“OI  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon 
her, 

To  compass  her  with  sweet  obser- 
vances, 

To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her 
true  ” — 

And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in 
his  heart 

Abruptly,  as  a man  upon  his  tongue 

May  break  it,  when  his  passion  mas- 
ters him. 

And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet 
heavens 

To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any 
wound. 

And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast 
about 

For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself, 

Which  made  him'  look  so  cloudy  and 
so  cold; 

Till  the  great  plover’s  human  whistle 
amazed 

Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the 
waste  she  fear’d 

In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambus- 
cade. 

Then  thought  again,  “ If  there  be  such 
in  me, 

I might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of 
Heaven, 

If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of 
it.” 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day 
was  gone, 

Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall 
knights 

On  horseback,  wholly  arm’d,  behind  a 
rock  . 

In  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs 
all; 

And  heard  one  crying  to  his  fellow, 
“ Look* 


252 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Here  comes  a laggard  hanging  down 
his  head, 

Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a beaten 
hound ; 

Come,  we  will  slay  him  and  will  have 
his  horse 

And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  be 
ours.” 

Then  Enid  ponder’d  in  her  heart, 
and  said : 

“ I will  go  back  a little  to  my  lord, 

And  I will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff 
talk ; 

For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me, 

Far  liefer  by  his  dear  hand  had  I die, 

Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss 
or  shame.” 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of 
return, 

Met  his  full  frown  timidly  firm,  and 
said ; 

“ My  lord,  I saw  three  bandits  by  the 
rock 

Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard 
them  boast 

That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess 
your  horse 

And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should 
be  theirs.” 

He  made  a wrathful  answer : “ Did 
I wish 

Your  warning  or  your  silence?  one 
command 

I laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me, 

And  thus  ye  keep  it!  Well  then,  look 
— for  now, 

Whether  ye  wish  me  victory  or  defeat, 

Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my 
death, 

Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not 
lost.” 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrow- 
ful, 

And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandit 
three. 

And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince 
Geraint 


Drave  the  long  spear  a cubit  thro’  his 
breast 

And  out  beyond ; and  then  against  his 

brace 

Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had 
broken  on  him 

A lance  that  splinter’d  like  an  icicle, 

Swung  from  his  brand  a windy  buffet 
out 

Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and 
stunn’d  the  twain 

Or  slew  them,  and  dismounting  like  a 
man 

That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying 
him, 

Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of 
woman  born 

The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which 
they  wore, 

And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the 
suits 

Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 

And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the 
three 

Together,  and  said  to  her,  “Drive 
them  on 

Before  you;”  and  she  drove  them 
thro’  the  waste. 

He  follow’d  nearer : ruth  began  to 
work 

Against  his  anger  in  him,  while  he 
watch’d 

The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the 
world, 

With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 

Driving  them  on  : he  fain  had  spoken 
to  her, 

And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the 
wrath 

And  smoulder’d  wrong  that  burnt  him 
all  within ; 

But  evermore  it  seem’d  an  easier  thing 

At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her 
dead, 

Than  to  cry  “ Halt,”  and  to  her  own 
bright  face 

Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty : 

And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him 
wroth  the  more 

That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own 
ear  had  heard 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


253 


}all  herself  false  : and  suffering  thus 
he  made 

dinutes  an  age  : but  in  scarce  longer 
time 

Chan  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 
before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again, 
Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  be- 
hold 

n the  first  shallow  shade  of  a deep 
wood, 

before  a gloom  of  stubborn-shafted 
oaks, 

Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly 
arm'd, 

thereof  one  seem’d  far  larger  than 
her  lord, 

^.nd  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  “ Look, 
a prize ! 

Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits 
of  arms, 

\nd  all  in  charge  of  whom  ? a girl : 
set  on.” 

‘ Nay,”  said  the  second,  “ yonder 
comes  a knight.” 

The  third,  “ A craven ; how  he  hangs 
his  head.” 

The  giant  answer’d  merrily,  “ Yea,  but 
one  ? 

vVait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall 
upon  him.” 

And  Enid  ponder’d  in  her  heart  and 
said, 

‘I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord, 
Vnd  I will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
dy  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 
\nd  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 
. needs  must  disobey  him  for  his 
good ; 

low  should  I dare  obey  him  to  his 
harm  ? 

feeds  must  I speak,  and  tho’  he  kill 
me  for  it, 

' save  a life  dearer  to  me  than  mine.” 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said 
to  him 

Fith  timid  firmness,  “Have  I leave 
to  speak  1 ” 

fe  said,  “Ye  take  it,  speaking,”  and 
she  spoke. 


“There  lurk  three  villains  yonder 
in  the  wood, 

And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm’d, 
and  one 

Is  larger-limb’d  than  you  are,  and  they 
say 

That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  ye 
pass.” 

To  which  he  flung  a wrathful  an- 
swer back : 

“ And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the 
wood, 

And  every  man  were  larger-limb’d 
than  I, 

And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon 
me, 

I swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 

As  you  that  not  obey  me.  Stand 
aside, 

And  if  I fall,  cleave  to  the  better 
man.” 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the 
event, 

Not  dare  to  watch  the  combat,  only 
breathe 

Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a 
breath. 

And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down 
upon  him. 

Aim’d  at  the  helm,  his  lance  err’d ; but 
Geraint’s, 

A little  in  the  late  encounter  strain’d, 

Struck  thro’  the  bulky  bandit’s  corse- 
let home, 

And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his 
enemy  roll’d, 

And  there  lay  still;  as  he  that  tells 
the  tale 

Saw  once  a great  piece  of  a promon- 
tory, 

That  had  a sapling  growing  on  it,  slide 

From  the  long  shore-cliff’s  windy  walls 
to  the  beach, 

And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling 
grew : 

So  lay  the  man  transfixt.  His  craven 
pair 

Of  comrades  making  slowlier  at  the 
Prince. 


•: 


154 


GERAINT  AND  ENID . 


When  now  they  saw  their  bulwark 
fallen,  stood, 

On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them 
more, 

Spurr’d  with  his  terrible  war-cry ; for 
as  one, 

That  listens  near  a torrent  mountain- 
brook, 

All  thro’  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract 
hears 

The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger 
fall 

At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to 
hear 

His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by 
it, 

And  foemen  scared,  like  that  false 
pair  who  turn’d 

Flying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 

Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an 
innocent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting, 
pick’d  the  lance 

That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from 
those  dead  wolves 

Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each 
from  each, 

And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each 
on  each, 

And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the 
three 

Together,  and  said  to  her,  “Drive 
them  on 

Before  you,”  and  she  drove  them  thro’ 
the  wood. 

He  follow’d  nearer  still:  the  pain 
she  had 

To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the 
wood, 

Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling 
arms, 

Together,  served  a little  to  disedge 

The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her 
heart : 

And  they  themselves,  like  creatures 
gently  born 

But  into  bad  hands  fall’n,  and  now  so 
long 

By  bandits  groom’d,  prick’d  their  light 
ears,  and  felt 


Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  govern 
ment. 

So  thro’  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood 
they  past, 

And  issuing  under  open  heavens  be 
held 

A little  town  with  towers,  upon  a rock, 
And  close  beneath,  a meadow  gemlike 
chased 

In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mow 
ing  in  it : 

And  down  a rocky  pathway  from  the 
place 

There  came  a fair-hair’d  youth,  tha 
in  his  hand 

Bare  victual  for  the  mowers:  anc 
Geraint 

Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale 
Then,  moving  downward  to  th< 
meadow  ground, 

He,  when  the  fair-hair’d  youth  cam* 
by  him,  said, 

“ Friend,  let  her  eat ; the  damsel  is  s< 
faint.” 

“ Yea,  willingly,”  replied  the  youth 
“ and  thou, 

My  lord,  eat  also,  tho’  the  fare  i 
coarse. 

And  only  meet  for  mowers ; ” then  se 
down 

His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  th 
sward 

They  let  the  horses  graze,  and  at 
themselves. 

And  Enid  took  a little  delicately, 
Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desir 
To  close  with  her  lord’s  pleasure;  bu 
Geraint 

Ate  all  the  mowers’  victual  unaware * 
And  when  he  found  all  empty,  wa 
amazed ; 

And,  “ Boy,”  said  he,  “ I have  eate 
all,  but  take 

A horse  and  arms  for  guerdon ; choos 
the  best.” 

He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  deligh 
“ My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty -fold 
“ Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,”  crie 
the  Prince. 

“ I take  it  as  free  gift,  then,”  said  th 
boy, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID . 


255 


Not  guerdon  ; for  myself  can  easily, 

Hiile  your  good  damsel  rests,  return, 
and  fetch 

resh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  our 
Earl; 

or  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is 
his, 

nd  I myself  am  his  ; and  I will  tell 
him 

ow  great  a man  thou  art : he  loves 
to  knowT 

/"hen  men  of  mark  are  in  his  terri- 
tory : 

nd  he  will  have  thee  tc  his  palace 
here, 

nd  serve  thee  costlier  than  with 
mowers’  fare.” 

Then  said  Geraint,  “I  wish  no  better 
fare: 

never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 

han  when  I left  your  mowers  dinner- 
less. 

nd  into  no  Earl’s  palace  will  I go. 

know,  God  knows,  too  much  of 
palaces ! 

nd  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to 
me. 

ut  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 
night, 

nd  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  re- 
turn 

Tth  victual  for  these  men,  and  let 
us  know.” 

“Yea, my  kind  lord,”  said  the  glad 
youth,  and  went, 

[eld  his  head  high,  and  thought  him- 
self a knight, 

.nd  up  the  rocky  pathway  disap- 
pear’d, 

wading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left 
alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought 
his  errant  eyes 

[ome  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let 
them  glance 

t Enid,  where  she  droopt : his  own 

L false  doom, 

hat  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never 
cross 


Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he 
sigh’d  ; 

Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  re- 
mark’d 

The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless, 

And  watch’d  the  sun  blaze  on  the 
turning  scythe, 

And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the 
heat. 

But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin’d 
hall, 

And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 

About  her  hollow  turret,  pluck’d  the 
grass 

There  growing  longest  by  the  mead- 
ow’s edge, 

And  into  many  a listless  annulet, 

Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage 
ring 

Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  re- 
turn’d 

And  told  them  of  a chamber,  and  they 
went ; 

Where,  after  saying  to  her,  “If  ye 
will, 

Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,”  to 
which 

She  answer’d,  “Thanks,  my  lord;” 
the  two  remain’d 

Apart  by  all  the  chamber’s  width,  and 
mute 

As  creatures  voiceless  thro’  the  fault 
of  birth, 

Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a 
shield, 

Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor 
glance 

The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a sudden,  many  a voice  along 
the  street, 

And  heel  against  the  pavement  echo- 
ing, burst 

Their  drowse ; and  either  started  while 
the  door, 

Push’d  from  without,  drave  backward 
to  the  wall, 

And  midmost  of  a rout  of  roisterers, 

Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale, 

Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 

Enter’d,  the  wild  lord  of  the  place, 
Limours. 


256 


GERAINT  AND  ENID . 


He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtli- 
ness, 

Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but 
stealthily, 

In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and 
graspt  hand, 

Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his 
eye, 

And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 

Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and 
goodly  cheer 

To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sump- 
tuously 

According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the 
host 

Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his 
friends, 

And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their 
Earl; 

**  And  care  not  for  the  cost ; the  cost 
is  mine.” 

And  wine  and  food  were  brought, 
and  Earl  Limours 

Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and 
told 

Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and 
play’d  upon  it, 

And  made  it  of  two  colors ; for  his 
talk, 

When  wine  and  free  companions 
kindled  him, 

Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like 
a gem 

Of  fifty  facets;  thus  he  moved  the 
Prince 

To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  ap- 
plause. 

Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry, 
ask’d  Limours, 

<c  Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the 
room,  and  speak 

To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits 
apart, 

Amd  seems  so  lonely  ? ” “ My  free 

leave,”  he  said ; 

« Get  her  to  speak  : she  doth  not  speak 
to  me.” 

Then  rose  Limours,  and  looking  at  his 
feet, 

pike  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears 
may  fail, 


Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring 

eyes, 

Bow’d  at  her  side  and  utter’d  whisper- 
ingly : 

“ Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid,  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid,  the  loss  of  whom  hath  turn’d  me 
wild  — 

What  chance  is  this  ? how  is  it  I see  j 
you  here  ? 

Ye  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my  | 
power. 

Yet  fear  me  not : I call  mine  own  self  ; 
wild, 

But  keep  a touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilder- 
ness. 

I thought,  but  that  your  father  came 
between, 

In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back : 
Make  me  a little  happier:  let  me 
know  it : 

Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a life  half- 
lost  ? 

Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all 
you  are. 

And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I see  with  joy. 
Ye  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him, 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 
maid, 

To  serve  you  — doth  he  love  you  as  of 
old? 

For,  call  it  lovers’  quarrels,  yet  I know 
Tho’  men  may  bicker  with  the  things 
they  love, 

They  would  not  make  them  laughable 
in  all  eyes, 

Not  while  they  loved  them;  and  youi 
wretched  dress, 

A wretched  insult  on  you,  dumbl} 
speaks 

Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  yoi 
no  more. 

Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now 
A common  chance  — right  well  I knov 
it  — pall’d  — 

For  I know  men : nor  will  ye  win  liin 
back, 

For  the  man’s  love  once  gone  nevci 
returns. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


257 


But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old ; 

With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of 
old: 

Good,  speak  the  word : my  followers 
ring  him  round : 

He  sits  unarm’d ; 1 hold  a finger  up ; 

They  understand  : nay  ; I do  not  mean 
blood : 

Nor  need  ye  look  so  scared  at  what  I 
say  : 

My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a moat, 

No  stronger  than  a wall : there  is  the 
keep ; 

He  shall  not  cross  us  more ; speak  but 
the  word : 

Or  speak  it  not ; but  then  by  Him  that 
made  me 

The  one  true  lover  whom  you  ever 
own’d, 

I will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I have. 

0 pardon  me ! the  madness  of  that 
hour. 

When  first  I parted  from  thee,  moves 
me  yet.” 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own 
voice 

And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it 

Made  his  eye  moist ; but  Enid  fear’d 
his  eyes, 

Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from 
the  feast ; 

And  answer’d  with  such  craft  as 
women  use, 

Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a 
chance 

That  breaks  upon  them  perilously, 
and  said : 

l “Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  former 
years, 

And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with 
morn, 

And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by 
violence ; 

Leave  me  to-niglit : I am  weary  to  the 
death.” 

i Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  bran- 
dish’d plume 

Brushing  his  instep,  bow’d  the  all- 
amorous  Earl, 


And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a loud 
good-night. 

He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his 
men, 

How  Enid  never  loved  a man  but  him, 

Nor  cared  a broken  egg-shell  for  her 
lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince 
Geraint, 

Debating  his  command  of  silence 
given, 

And  that  she  now  perforce  must  vio- 
late it, 

Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 
she  held 

He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 

To  wake  him,  but  hung  o’er  him, 
wholly  pleased 

To  find  him  yet  unwounded  after  fight, 

And  hear  him  breathing  low  and 
equally. 

Anon  she  rose,  and  stepping  lightly, 
heap’d 

The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place, 

All  to  be  there  against  a sudden  need ; 

Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  over- 
toil’d 

By  that  day’s  grief  and  travel,  ever- 
more 

Seem’d  catching  at  a rootless  thorn, 
and  then 

Went  slipping  down  horrible  prec- 
ipices, 

And  strongly  striking  out  her  limbs 
awoke ; 

Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl 
at  the  door, 

With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 

Sound  on  a dreadful  trumpet,  sum- 
moning her ; 

Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to 
the  light, 

As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o’er  the  dewy 
world, 

And  glimmer’d  on  his  armor  in  the 
room. 

And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 

But  touch’d  it  unawares:  jangling, 
the  casque 

Eell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at 
her. 


258 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence 
given, 

She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours 
had  said, 

Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her 
not; 

Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had 
used ; 

But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet, 

Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and 
seenTd 

So  justified  by  that  necessity, 

That  tho’  he  thought  “ was  it  for  him 
she  wept 

In  Devon  ? ” he  but  gave  a wrathful 
groan, 

Saying,  “ Your  sweet  faces  make  good 
fellows  fools 

And  traitors.  Call  the  host  and  bid 
him  bring 

Charger  and  palfrey.”  So  she  glided 
out 

Among  the  heavy  breathings  of  the 
house, 

And  like  a household  Spirit  at  the 
walls 

Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and 
return’d : 

Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho’  all 
unask’d, 

In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a squire ; 

Till  issuing  arm’d  he  found  the  host 
and  cried, 

“ Thy  reckoning,  friend  ? ” and  ere  he 
learnt  it,  “ Take 

Five  horses  and  their  armors”;  and 
the  host 

Suddenly  honest,  answer’d  in  amaze, 

;‘My  lord,  I scarce  have  spent  the 
worth  of  one  ! ” 

“ Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,”  said 
the  Prince, 

And  then  to  Enid,  “ Forward ! and 
to-day 

I charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially, 

What  thing  soever  ye  may  hear,  or  see, 

Or  fancy  (tho’  I count  it  of  small  use 

To  charge  you)' that  ye  speak  not  but 
obey.” 

And  Enid  answer’d,  “ Yea,  my  lord, 

I know 


Your  wish,  and  would  obey;  but  rid- 
ing first, 

I hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not 
hear, 

I see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see  : 

Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that 
seems  hard ; 

Almost  beyond  me:  yet  I would 
obey.” 

“Yea  so,”  said  he,  “doit:  be  not 
too  wise ; 

Seeing  that  ye  are  wedded  to  a man, 

Not  all  mismated  with  a yawning 
clown, 

But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head 
and  3'ours, 

With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however 
far, 

And  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his 
dreams.” 

With  that  he  turn’d  and  look’d  as 
keenly  at  her 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver’s 
toil ; 

And  that  within  her,  which  a wanton 
fool, 

Or  hasty  judger  would  have  call’d  her 
guilt, 

Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eye- 
lid fall. 

And  Geraint  look’d  and  was  not  satis- 
fied. 

Then  forward  by  a way  which, 
beaten  broad, 

Led  from  the  territory  of  false 
Limours 

To  the  waste  earldqm  of  another  earl, 

Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals 
call’d  the  Bull, 

Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower 
on. 

Once  she  look’d  back,  and  when  she 
saw  him  ride 

More  near  by  many  a rood  than  yes- 
tprmorn, 

It  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful  ; till 
Geraint 

Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should 
say 


GERAINT  AND  ENID . 


25$> 


“ Ye  watch  me,”  sadden’d  all  her  heart 
again. 

But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a dewy 
blade, 

The  sound  of  many  a heavily-gallop- 
ing hoof 

Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round 
she  saw 

Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker 
in  it. 

Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord’s  behest, 

And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he 
rode 

As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she 
held 

Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 

At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy, 

Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his 
word, 

Was  in  a manner  pleased,  and  turning, 
stood. 

And  in  the  moment  after,  wild 
Limours, 

Borne  on  a black  horse,  like  a thun- 
der-cloud 

Whose  skirts  are  loosen’d  by  the 
breaking  storm, 

Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he 
rode, 

And  all  in  passion  uttering  a dry 
shriek, 

Dash’d  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with 
him,  and  bore 

Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm 
beyond 

The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn’d 
or  dead, 

And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow’d 
him, 

And  blindly  rush’d  on  all  the  rout 
behind. 

But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the 
man 

They  vanish’d  panic-stricken,  like  a 
shoal 

Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a summer 
morn 

Adown  the  crystal  dykes  at  Camelot 

Come  slipping  o’er  their  shadows  on 
the  sand, 

But  if  a man  who  stands  upon  the 
brink 


But  lift  a shining  hand  against  the 
sun, 

There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a fin 

Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in 
flower; 

So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the 
man, 

Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the 
Earl, 

And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way; 

So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in 
wine. 

Then  like  a stormy  sunlight  smiled 
Geraint, 

Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that 
fell 

Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and 
wildly  fly, 

Mixt  with  the  flyers.  “ Horse  and 
man,”  he  said, 

“ All  of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest 
friends ! 

Not  a hoof  left : and  I methinks  till 
now 

Was  honest  — paid  with  horses  and 
with  arms ; 

I cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg : 

And  so  what  say  ye,  shall  we  strip 
him  there 

Your  lover  1 has  your  palfrey  heart 
enough 

To  bear  his  armor  ? shall  we  fast,  or 
dine  ? 

No  ? — then  do  thou,  being  right  hon- 
est, pray 

That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of 
Earl  Doorm, 

I too  would  still  be  honest.”  Thus 
lie  said  : 

And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 

And  answering  not  a word,  she  led  the 
way. 

But  as  a man  to  whom  a dreadful 

loss 

Falls  in  a far  land  and  he  knows  it 
not, 

But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the 
loss 

So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to 
death ; 


260 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  being 
prick’d 

In  combat  with  the  follower  of 
Limours, 

Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly, 

And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle 
wife 

What  ail’d  him,  hardly  knowing  it 
himself, 

Till  his  eye  darken’d  and  his  helmet 
wagg’d  ; 

And  at  a sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 

Tho’  happily  down  on  a bank  of  grass, 

The  Prince,  without  a word,  from  his 
horse  fell. 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his 
fall, 

Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all 
pale 

Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of 
his  arms, 

Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue 
eye 

Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  his 
wound, 

And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 

Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blister- 
ing sun, 

And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain’d  her 
dear  lord’s  life. 

Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand 
could  do, 

She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 

Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the 
way. 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded 
her, 

For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbu- 
lence, 

A woman  weeping  for  her  murder’d 
mate 

Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a summer 
shower : 

One  took  him  for  a victim  of  Earl 
Doorm, 

Nor  dared  to  waste  a perilous  pity  on 
him : 

Another  hurrying  past,  a man-at-arms, 

Rode  on  a mission  to  the  bandit  Earl ; 


Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a 
coarse  song, 

He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless 
eyes  : 

Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of 
Doorm 

Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 

The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in 
his  fear  ; 

At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted 
heel 

And  scour’d  into  the  coppices  and  was 
lost, 

While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved 
like  a man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge 
Earl  Doorm, 

Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  rus- 
set beard, 

Bound  on  a foray,  rolling  eyes  of 
prey, 

Came  riding  with  a hundred  lances 
up; 

But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a 
ship, 

Cried  out  with  a big  voice,  “ What,  is 
he  dead  ? ” 

“ No,  no,  not  dead ! ” she  answer’d  in 
all  haste. 

“Would  some  of  your  kind  people 
take  him  up, 

And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel 
sun  ? 

Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not 
dead.” 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm:  “ Well,  if 
he  be  not  dead, 

Why  wail  ye  for  him  thus  ? ye  seem  a 
child. 

And  be  he  dead,  I count  you  for  a 
fool ; 

Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him  : 
dead  or  not, 

Ye  mar  a comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 

Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely  — some 
of  you, 

Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to 
our  hall : 

An  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our 
band ; 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


261 


And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth 
enough 

To  hide  him.  See  ye  take  the  charger 
too, 

A noble  one.” 


He  spake,  and  past  away, 

But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  who 
advanced, 

Each  growling  like  a dog,  when  his 
good  bone 

Seems  to  be  pluck’d  at  by  the  village 
boys 

Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he 
fears 

To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot 
upon  it, 

Gnawing  and  growling : so  the  ruffians 
growl’d, 

Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a dead 
man, 

Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morn- 
ing’s raid, 

Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a litter- 
bier, 

Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays 
out 

For  those  that  might  be  wounded ; laid 
him  on  it 

All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and 
took 

And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of 
Doorm, 

(His  gentle  charger  following  him 
unled) 

And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which 
he  lay 

Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the 
hall, 

And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to 
join 

Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as 
before, 

And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the 
dead  man, 

And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own 
souls,  and  her. 

They  might  as  well  have  blest  her : 
she  was  deaf 

To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from 
one. 


So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her 
lord, 

There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his 
head, 

And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  call- 
ing to  him. 

Till  at  the  last  he  waken’d  from  his 
swoon, 

And  found  his  own  dear  bride  prop- 
ping his  head, 

And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and 
calling  to  him ; 

And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his 
face; 

And  said  to  his  own  heart,  “ She  weeps 
for  me”: 

And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign’d  himself 
as  dead, 

That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  utter- 
most, 

And  say  to  his  own  heart,  “ She  weeps 
for  me.” 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return’d 

The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder 
to  the  hall. 

His  lusty  spearmen  follow’d  him  with 
noise : 

Each  hurling  down  a heap  of  things 
that  rang 

Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance 
aside, 

And  doff’d  his  helm : and  then  there 
flutter’d  in, 

Half-bold,  half-frighted,  with  dilated 

eyes, 

A tribe  of  women,  dress’d  in  many 
hues, 

And  mingled  with  the  spearmen  : and 
Earl  Doorm 

Struck  with  a knife’s  haft  hard 
against  the  board, 

And  call’d  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed 
his  spears. 

And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and 
quarter  beeves, 

And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam 
of  flesh : 

And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat 
down  at  once, 

And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked 
hall, 


262 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear 
them  feed; 

Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself, 

To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless 
tribe. 

But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all 
he  would, 

He  roll'd  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and 
found 

A damsel  drooping  in  a corner  of  it. 

Then  he  remember’d  her,  and  how  she 
wept; 

And  out  of  her  there  came  a power 
upon  him ; 

And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said, 
“ Eat ! 

I never  yet  beheld  a thing  so  pale. 

God’s  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see 
you  weep. 

Eat ! Look  yourself.  Good  luck  had 
your  good  man, 

For  were  1 dead  who  is  it  would 
weep  for  me  \ 

Sweet  lady,  never  since  I first  drew 
breath 

Have  I beheld  a lily  like  yourself. 

And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your 
cheek, 

There  is  not  one  among  my  gentle- 
. women 

Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper  for  a 
glove. 

But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be 
ruled, 

And  I will  do  the  thing  I have  not 
done, 

For  ye  shall  share  my  earldom  with 
me,  girl, 

And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one 
nest. 

And  I will  fetch  you  forage  from  all 
fields, 

For  I compel  all  creatures  to  my  will.” 

He  spoke : the  brawny  spearman 
let  his  cheek 

Bulge  with  the  unswallow’d  piece,  and 
turning  stared ; 

While  some,  whose  souls  the  old  ser- 
pent long  had  drawn 

Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the 
wither’d  leaf 


And  makes  it  earth,  hiss’d  each  at 
other’s  ear 

What  shall  not  be  recorded  — women 

they, 

Women,  or  what  had  been  those 
gracious  things, 

But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their 
best, 

Yea,  would  have  help’d  him  to  it : and 
all  at  once 

They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought 
of  them, 

But  answer’d  in  low  voice,  her  meek 
head  yet 

Drooping,  “ I pray  you  of  your  cour- 
tesy, 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be.” 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard 
her  speak, 

But  like  a mighty  patron,  satisfied 

With  what  himself  had  done  so  gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed  that  she  had  thank’d  him, 
adding,  “ Yea, 

Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I account  you 
mine.” 

She  answer’d  meekly,  “ How  should 
I be  glad 

Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  any- 
thing, 

Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon 
me?  ” 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon 
her  talk, 

As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 

And  sickly  nothing;  suddenly  seized 
on  her, 

And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the 
board, 

And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  cry- 
ing, “ Eat.” 

“ No,  no,”  said  Enid,  vext,  “ I will 
not  eat 

Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 

And  eat  with  me.”  “Drink,  then/ 
he  answer’d.  “ Here ! ” 

(And  fill’d  a horn  with  wine  and  held 
it  to  her,) 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


263 


a Lo ! I,  myself,  when  flush'd  with 
fight,  or  hot, 

God’s  curse,  with  anger  — often  I 
myself, 

Before  I well  have  drunken,  scarce 
can  eat  : 

Drink  therefore  and  the  wine  will 
change  your  will.” 

“ Not  so,”  she  cried,  “ By  Heaven,  I 
will  not  drink 

Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do 

if, 

And  drink  with  me ; and  if  he  rise  no 
more, 

I will  not  look  at  wine  until  I die.” 

At  this  he  turn’d  all  red  and  paced 
his  hall, 

Now  gnaw’d  his  under,  now  his  upper 
tip, 

And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at 
last: 

“ Girl,  for  I see  ye  scorn  my  courte- 
sies, 

Take  warning : yonder  man  is  surely 
dead ; 

And  I compel  all  creatures  to  my 
will. 

Not  eat  nor  drink?  And  wherefore 
wail  for  one, 

Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and 
scorn 

By  dressing  it  in  rags  ? Amazed  am 

I, 

Beholding  how  ye  butt  against  my 
wish, 

That  I forbear  you  thus  : cross  me 
no  more. 

At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor 
gown, 

This  silken  rag,  this  beggar-woman’s 
weed : 

I love  that  beauty  should  go  beauti- 
fully : 

For  see  ye  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 

How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of 
one 

Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go 
beautifully  ? 

Rise  therefore ; robe  yourself  in  this  : 
obey.” 


He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gen- 
tle women 

Display’d  a splendid  silk  of  foreign 
loom, 

Where  like  a shoaling  sea  the  lovely 
blue 

Play’d  into  green,  and  thicker  down 
the  front 

With  jewels  than  the  sward  with 
drops  of  dew, 

When  all  night  long  a cloud  clings 
to  the  hill, 

And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the 
day 

Strike  where  it  clung:  so  thickly 
shone  the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer’d,  harder  to  be 
moved 

Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of 
power, 

With  life-long  injuries  burning  un- 
avenged, 

And  now  their  hour  has  come  ; and 
Enid  said : 

\ 

“ In  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord 
found  me  first, 

And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father’s 
hall: 

In  this  poor  gown  I rode  with  him  to 
court, 

And  there  the  Queen  array’d  me  like 
the  sun : 

In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe 
myself, 

When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal 
quest 

Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be 
gain’d : 

And  this  poor  gown  I will  not  cast 
aside 

Until  himself  arise  a living  man, 

And  bid  me  cast  it.  I have  griefs 
enough : 

Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me 

be: 

I never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him : 

Yea,  God,  I pray  you  of  your  gentle* 
ness, 

] He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be.” 


264 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and 
down  his  hall, 

And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his 
teeth  ; 

Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his 
mood 

Crying,  “ I count  it  of  no  more  avail, 

Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with 
you ; 

Take  my  salute,”  unknightly  with  flat 
hand, 

However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the 
cheek. 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 

And  since  she  thought,  “ He  had  not 
dared  to  do  it, 

Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was 
dead,” 

Sent  forth  a sudden  sharp  and  bitter 

cry,  , . i 

As  of  a wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap, 

Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro' 
the  wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at 
his  sword, 

(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow 
shield), 

Made  but  a single  bound,  and  with  a 
sweep  of  it 

Shore  thro*  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like 
a ball 

The  russet-bearded  head  roll’d  on  the 
floor. 

So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted 
dead. 

And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the 
hall 

Rose  when  they  saw  the  dead  man 
rise,  and  fled 

Yelling  as  from  a spectre,  and  the  two 

Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said : 

“ Enid,  I have  used  you  worse  than 
that  dead  man ; 

Done  you  more  wrong : we  both  have 
undergone 

That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thrice 
your  own : 

Henceforward  I will  rather  die  than 
doubt. 


And  here  I lay  this  penance  on  my- 
self, 

Not,  tho’  mine  own  ears  heard  you 
yestermorn  — 

You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I heard 
you  say, 

I heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true 
wife : 

I swear  I will  not  ask  your  meaning 
in  it : 

I do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 

And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than 
doubt.” 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender 
word, 

She  felt  so  blunt  and  stupid  at  the 
heart : 

She  only  pray’ d him,  “ Fly,  they  will 
return 

And  slay  you ; fly,  your  charger  is 
without, 

My  palfrey  lost.”  “ Then,  Enid,  shall 
you  ride 

Behind  me.”  “Yea,”  said  Enid,  “ let 
us  go.” 

And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately 
horse, 

Who  now  no  more  a vassal  to  the 
thief, 

But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful 
fight, 

Neigh’d  with  all  gladness  as  they 
came,  and  stoop’d 

With  a low  whinny  toward  the  pair : 
and  she 

Kiss’d  the  white  star  upon  his  noble 
front, 

Glad  also;  then  Geraint  upon  the 
horse 

Mounted,  and  reach’d  a hand,  and  on 
his  foot 

She  set  her  own  and  climb’d  ; he  turn’d 
his  face 

And  kiss’d  her  climbing,  and  she  cast 
her  arms 

About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode 
away. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Para- 
dise 

O’er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew, 


GERAiNT  AND  ENID . 


265 


!ame  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind 
'hail  lived  thro’  her,  who  in  that  per- 
ilous hour 

ut  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  hus- 
band’s heart, 

md  felt  him  hers  again : she  did  not 
weep, 

jut  o’er  her  meek  eyes  came  a happy 
mist 

ike  that  which  kept  the  heart  of 
Eden  green 

efore  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain  : 
et  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue 
eyes 

s not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path, 
flght  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit 
hold, 

L knight  of  Arthur’s  court,  who  laid 
his  lance 

a rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon 
him. 

'hen,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of 
blood, 

he,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what 
had  chanced, 

hriek’d  to  the  stranger  “ Slay  not  a 
dead  man ! ” 

The  voice  of  Enid,”  said  the  knight ; 
but  she, 

leholding  it  was  Edyrn  son  of  Nudd, 
Tas  moved  so  much  the  more,  and 
shriek’d  again, 

O cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you 
life.” 

md  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward 
spake : 

My  lord  Geraint,  I greet  you  with 
all  love; 

took  you  for  a bandit  knight  of 
Doorm ; 

aid  fear  not,  Enid,  I should  fall  upon 
him, 

VTio  love  you,  Prince,  with  something 
of  the  love 

therewith  we  love  the  Heaven  that 
chastens  us. 

'or  once,  when  I was  up  so  high  in 
pride 

’hat  I was  half-way  down  the  slope 
to  Hell, 

>y  overthrowing  me  you  threw  me 
higher. 


Now,  made  a knight  of  Arthur’s  Table 
Pound, 

And  since  I knew  this  Earl,  when  I 
myself 

Was  half  a bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 

I come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to 
Doorm 

(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding 
him 

Disband  himself,  and  scatter  all  his 
powers, 

Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the 
King.” 

“ He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King 
of  kings,” 

Cried  the  wan  Prince;  ‘‘and  lo,  the 
powers  of  Doorm 

Are  scatter’d,”  and  he  pointed  to  the 
field, 

Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on 
mound  and  knoll, 

Were  men  and  women  staring  and 
aghast, 

While  some  yet  fled ; and  then  he 
plainlier  told 

How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within 
his  hall. 

But  when  the  knight  besought  him, 
“ Follow  me. 

Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King’s 
own  ear 

Speak  what  has  chanced;  ye  surely 
have  endured 

Strange  chances  here  alone ; ” that 
other  flush’d, 

And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in 
reply, 

Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless 
King, 

And  after  madness  acted  question 
ask’d  : 

Till  Edyrn  crying,  “ If  ye  will  not  go 

To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to 
you.” 

“ Enough,”  he  said,  “ I follow,”  and 
they  went. 

But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears, 

One  from  the  bandit  scatter’d  in  the 
field, 

And  one  from  Edyrn.  Every  now 
and  then. 


266 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


When  Edyrn  rein'd  his  charger  at 
her  side, 

She  shrank  a little.  In  a hollow  land, 

From  which  old  fires  have  broken, 
men  may  fear 

Fresh  fire  and  ruin.  He,  perceiving, 
said : 

“Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that 
most  had  cause 

To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I am 
changed. 

Yourself  were  first  the  blameless 
cause  to  make 

My  nature's  prideful  sparkle  in  the 
blood 

Break  into  furious  flame;  being  re- 
pulsed 

By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I schemed  and 
wrought 

Until  I overturn'd  him ; then  set  up 

(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my 
heart) 

My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a para- 
mour ; 

Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest 
fair, 

And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism, 

So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  I believed 
myself 

Unconquerable,  for  I was  wellnigh 
mad  : 

And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in 
these  jousts, 

I should  have  slain  your  father,  seized 
yourself. 

I lived  in  hope  that  sometime  you 
would  come 

To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best 
you  loved ; 

And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your 
meek  blue  eyes, 

The  truest  eyes  that  ever  answer'd 
Heaven, 

Behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on 
him. 

Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or 
pray'd  to  me, 

I should  not  less  have  kill'd  him. 
And  you  came,  — 

But  once  you  came,  — and  with  your 
own  true  eyes 


Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  a 
one 

Speaks  of  a service  done  him)  over- 
throw 

My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three 
years  old, 

And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give 
me  life. 

There  was  I broken  down;  there  wa< 
I saved : 

Tho'  thence  I rode  all-shamed,  hating 
the  life 

He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 

And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laic 
upon  me 

Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  he 
court ; 

Where  first  as  sullen  as  a beast  new 
caged, 

And  waiting  to  be  treated  like 
wolf, 

Because  I knew  my  deeds  were  knowr 
I found, 

Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scon 

Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence 

Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such 
grace 

Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I began 

To  glance  behind  me  at  my  formd 
life, 

And  find  that  it  had  been  the  wolf 
indeed : 

And  oft  I talk’d  with  Dubric,  the  liig| 
saint, 

Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratorj) 

Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  genth 
ness, 

Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhom 
makes  a man. 

And  you  were  often  there  about  til 
Queen, 

But  saw  me  not,  or  mark’d  not  if  yo 
saw ; 

Nor  did  I care  or  dare  to  speak  wit 
you, 

But  kept  myself  aloof  till  I wj 
changed; 

And  fear  not,  cousin ; I am  change 
indeed." 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believe 

Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulou 


GERAINT  AND  ENID . 


267 


f what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend 
or  foe, 

here  most  in  those  who  most  have 
done  them  ill. 

nd  when  they  reach’d  the  camp  the 
King  himself 

dvanced  to  greet  them,  and  behold- 
ing her 

10’  pale,  yet  happy,  ask’d  her  not  a 
word, 

at  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he 
held 

i converse  for  a little,  and  return’d, 

nd,  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from 
horse, 

nd  kiss’d  her  with  all  pureness, 
brother-like, 

nd  show’d  an  empty  tent  allotted 
her, 

nd  glancing  for  a minute,  till  he  saw 
her 

ass  into  it  turn’d  to  the  Prince,  and 
said: 

“Prince,  when  of  late  ye  pray’d  me 
for  my  leave 

0 move  to  your  own  land,  and  there 

defend 

iour  marches,  I was  prick’d  with 
some  reproof, 

1 s one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate 

and  be, 

y having  look’d  too  much  thro’  alien 
eyes, 

nd  wrought  too  long  with  delegated 
hands, 

ot  used  mine  own:  but  now  behold 
me  come 

3 cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 
my  realm, 

rith  Edyrn  and  with  others : have 
ye  look’d 

t Edyrn  ? have  ye  seen  how  nobly 
changed  ? 

lis  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonder- 
ful. 

is  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is 
changed, 

le  world  will  not  believe  a man 
repents : 

i ad  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly 
right. 


Pull  seldom  doth  a man  repent,  or  use 

Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious 
quitch 

Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of 
him, 

And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself 
afresh. 

Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his 
heart 

As  I will  weed  this  land  before  1 gc, 

I,  therefore,  made  him  of  our  Table 
Round, 

Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him 
everyway 

One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous. 

Sanest  and  most  obedient : and  indeed 

This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon 
himself 

After  a life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 

A thousand-fold  more  great  and  won- 
derful 

Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking 
his  life, 

My  subject  with  my  subjects  under 
him, 

Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on 
a realm 

Of  robbers,  tho’  he  slew  them  one  by 
one, 

And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to 
the  death.” 

So  spake  the  King ; low  bow’d  the 
Prince,  and  felt 

His  work  was  neither  great  nor  won. 
derful, 

And  past  to  Enid’s  tent ; and  thither 
came 

The  King’s  own  leech  to  look  into  his 
hurt ; 

And  Enid  tended  on  him  there ; and 
there 

Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and 
the  breath 

Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over 
him, 

Fill’d  all  the  genial  courses  of  his 
blood 

With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper 
love, 

As  the  south-west  that  blowing  BaJf 
lake 


268 


ME  RUN  AND  VIVIEN. 


Fills  all  the  sacred  Dee.  So  past  the 
days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of 
his  hurt, 

The  blameless  King  went  forth  and 
cast  his  eyes 

On  each  of  all  whom  Uther  left  in 
charge 

Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the 
King: 

He  look’d  and  found  them  wanting ; 
and  as  now 

Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the 
Berkshire  hills 

To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  here- 
tofore, 

He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 

Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink’d 
at  wrong, 

And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a stronger 
race 

With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a 
thousand  men 

To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  every- 
where 

Clear’d  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the 
law, 

And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and 
cleansed  the  land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole 
again,  they  past 

With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 

There  the  great  Queen  once  more  em- 
braced her  friend, 

And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the 
day. 

And  tho’  Geraint  could  never  take 
again 

That  comfort  from  their  converse 
which  he  took 

Before  the  Queen’s  fair  name  was 
breathed  upon, 

He  rested  well  content  that  all  was 
well. 

Thence  after  tarrying  for  a space  they 
rode, 

And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to 
the  shores 

Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 
land. 


And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the 
King 

So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all 
hearts 

Applauded,  and  the  spiteful  whisper 
died : 

And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 

And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament, 

They  call’d  him  the  great  Prince  and 
man  of  men. 

But  Enid,  whom  the  ladies  loved  to 
call 

Enid  the  Fair,  a grateful  people 
named 

Enid  the  Good;  and  in  their  halls 
arose 

The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and 
Geraints 

Of  times  to  be ; nor  did  he  doubt  her 
more, 

But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he 
crown’d 

A happy  life  with  a fair  death,  and 
fell 

Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern 
Sea 

In  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless 
King. 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 

A storm  was  coming,  but  the  winds! 
were  still, 

And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 

Before  an  oak,  so  hollow,  huge  and 
old 

It  look’d  a towerof  ruin’d  masonwork 

At  Merlin’s  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

I 

Whence  came  she  ? One  that  bare 
in  bitter  grudge 

The  scorn  of  Arthur  and  his  Table, 
Mark 

The  Cornish  King,  had  heard  a wan 
dering  voice, 

A minstrel  of  Caerleon  by  strong  storrr 

Blown  into  shelter  at  Tintagil,  say 

That  out  of  naked  knightlike  purity 

Sir  Lancelot  worshipt  no  unmarrie* 
girl 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


269 


ut  the  great  Queen  herself,  fought 
in  her  name, 

ware  by  her  — vows  like  theirs,  that 
high  in  heaven 

ove  most,  but  neither  marry,  nor  are 
given 

I marriage,  angels  of  our  Lord’s  re- 

port. 

He  ceased,  and  then  — for  Vivien 
sweetly  said 

die  sat  beside  the  banquet  nearest 
Mark), 

And  is  the  fair  example  follow’d, 
Sir, 

i Arthur’s  household  ? ” — answer’d 
innocently  : 

“ Ay,  by  some  few  — ay,  truly  — 
youths  that  hold 

more  beseems  the  perfect  virgin 
knight 

) worship  woman  as  true  wife  be- 
yond 

II  hopes  of  gaining,  than  as  maiden 

girl. 

ley  place  their  pride  in  Lancelot  and 
the  Queen. 

> passionate  for  an  utter  purity 

?yond  the  limit  of  their  bond,  are 
these, 

[>r  Arthur  bound  them  not  to  single- 
ness. 

ave  hearts  and  clean!  and  yet — - 
God  guide  them  — young.” 

Then  Mark  was  half  in  heart  to 
hurl  his  cup 

raight  at  the  speaker,  but  forbore  : 

i he  rose 

leave  the  hall,  and,  Vivien  follow- 
ing him, 

irn’d  to  her : “ Here  are  snakes 
within  the  grass ; 

id  you  methinks,  O Vivien,  save  ye 
fear 

e monkish  manhood,  and  the  mask 

to  of  pure 

i orn  by  this  court,  can  stir  them  till 
they  sting.” 


And  Vivien  answer’d,  smiling  scorn- 
fully, 

“ Why  fear  ? because  that  foster’d  at 
thy  court 

I savor  of  thy  — virtues  ? fear  them  ? 
no. 

As  Love,  if  Love  be  perfect,  casts  out 
fear, 

So  Hate,  if  Hate  be  perfect,  casts  out 
fear. 

My  father  died  in  battle  against  the 
King, 

My  mother  on  his  corpse  in  open  field  ; 

She  bore  me  there,  for  born  from 
death  was  I 

Among  the  dead  and  sown  upon  the 
wind  — 

And  then  on  thee!  and  shown  the 
truth  betimes, 

That  old  true  filth,  and  bottom  of  the 
well, 

Where  Truth  is  hidden.  Gracious 
lessons  thine 

And  maxims  of  the  mud  ! ‘ This 

Arthur  pure ! 

Great  Nature  thro’  the  flesh  herself 
hath  made 

Gives  him  the  lie ! There  is  no  being 
pure, 

My  cherub  ; saith  not  Holy  Writ  the 
same  ? ’ — 

If  I were  Arthur,  I would  have  thy 
blood. 

Thy  blessing, stainless  King!  I bring 
thee  back, 

When  I have  ferreted  out  their  bur- 
rowings, 

The  hearts  of  all  this  Order  in  mine 
hand  — - 

Ay  — so  that  fate  and  craft  and  folly 
close, 

Perchance,  one  curl  of  Arthur’s 
golden  beard. 

To  me  this  narrow  grizzled  fork  of 
thine 

Is  cleaner-fashion’d — Well,  I loved 
thee  first. 

That  warps  the  wit.” 

Loud  laugh’d  the  graceless  Mark. 

But  Vivien  into  Camelot  stealing, 
lodged 


270 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN . 


Low  in  the  city,  and  on  a festal  day  I 

When  Guinevere  was  crossing  the  | 
great  hall  ' 

Cast  herself  down,  knelt  to  the  Queen, 
and  wail’d. 

“ Why  kneel  ye  there  ? What  evil 
have  ye  wrought  ? 

Rise!”  and  the  damsel  bidden  rise 
arose 

And  stood  with  folded  hands  and 
downward  eyes 

Of  glancing  corner,  and  all  meekly 
said, 

“None  wrought,  but  suffer’d  much, 
an  orphan  maid ! 

My  father  died  in  battle  for  thy  King, 

My  mother  on  his  corpse  — in  open 
field, 

The  sad  sea-sounding  wastes  of  Lyon- 
esse  — 

Poor  wretch  — no  friend ! — and  now 
by  Mark  the  King 

For  that  small  charm  of  feature  mine, 
pursued  — 

If  any  such  be  mine  — I fly  to  thee. 

Save,  save  me  thou — Woman  of 
women  — thine 

The  wreath  of  beauty,  thine  the  c rown 
of  power, 

Be  thine  the  balm  of  pity,  0 Heaven  s 
own  white 

Earth-angel,  stainless  bride  of  stain- 
less King  — 

Help,  for  he  follows ! take  me  to  thy- 
self ! 

0 yield  me  shelter  for  mine  innocency 

Among  thy  maidens  ! ” 

Here  her  slow  sweet  eyes 

Fear-tremulous,  but  humbly  hopeful, 
rose 

Fixt  on  her  hearer’s,  while  the  Queen 
who  stood 

All  glittering  like  May  sunshine  on 
May  leaves 

In  green  and  gold,  and  plumed  with 
green  replied, 

“Peace,  child!  of  overpraise  and  over- 
blame 

We  choose  the  last.  Our  noble 
Arthur,  him 


Ye  scarce  can  overpraise,  will  hear 
and  know. 

Nay  — we  believe  all  evil  of  thy 
Mark  — 

Well,  we  shall  test  thee  farther ; but 
this  hour 

We  ride  a-hawking  with  Sir  Lancelot. 

He  hath  given  us  a fair  falcon  which 
he  train’d ; 

We  go  to  prove  it.  Bide  ye  here  the 
while.” 

She  past;  and  Vivien  murmur’d 
after  “ Go ! 

I bide  the  while.”  Then  thro’  the 
portal-arch 

Peering  askance,  and  muttering 
broken-wise, 

As  one  that  labors  with  an  evil  dream 

Beheld  the  Queen  and  Lancelot  get  tc 
horse. 

“Is  that  the  Lancelot?  goodly  — 
ay,  but  gaunt : 

Courteous  — amends  for  gauntness  — 
takes  her  hand  — 

That  glance  of  theirs,  but  for  th^ 
street,  had  been 

A clinging  kiss  — how  hand  linger.4 
in  hand ! 

Let  go  at  last ! — they  ride  away  -j 
to  hawk 

For  waterfowl.  Royaller  game  ij 
mine. 

For  such  a supersensual  sensual  bom 

As  that  gray  cricket  cliirpt  of  at  ou 
hearth  — 

Touch  flax  with  flame— a glance  wil 
serve  — the  liars  ! 

Ah  little  rat  that  borest  in  the  dyke 

Thy  hole  by  night  to  let  the  boundles 
deep 

Down  upon  far-off  cities  while  the 
dance  — 

Or  dream  — of  thee  they  dream’d  nc 
— nor  of  me 

These  — ay,  but  each  of  either:  rid 
and  dream 

The  mortal  dream  that  never  yet  w; 
mine  — 

Ride,  ride  and  dream  until  ye  wake 
to  me ! 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


271 


’hen,  narrow  court  and  lubber  King, 
farewell ! 

’or  Lancelot  will  be  gracious  to  the 
rat, 

Lnd  our  wise  Queen,  if  knowing  that 
I know, 

Vill  hate,  loathe,  fear  — but  honor 
me  the  more.” 

Yet  while  they  rode  together  down 
the  plain, 

'heir  talk  was  all  of  training,  terms 
of  art, 

)iet  and  seeling,  jesses,  leash  and  lure. 
She  is  too  noble  ” he  said  “ to  check 
at  pies, 

lor  will  she  rake : there  is  no  base- 
ness in  her.” 

[ere  when  the  Queen  demanded  as  by 
chance 

Know  ye  the  stranger  woman?” 
“ Let  her  be,” 

aid  Lancelot  and  unhooded  casting 
off 

he  goodly  falcon  free;  she  tower’d; 
her  bells, 

one  under  tone,  shrill’d;  and  they 
lifted  up 

heir  eager  faces,  wondering  at  the 
strength, 

'oldness  and  royal  knighthood  of  the 
bird 

^ho  pounced  her  quarry  and  slew  it. 
Many  a time 

3 s once  — of  old  — among  the  flowers 
— they  rode. 

1 But  Vivien  half-forgotten  of  the 
Queen 

mong  her  damsels  broidering  sat, 
heard,  watch’d 

nd  whisper’d : thro’  the  peaceful 
31  court  she  crept 

nd  whisper’d  : then  as  Arthur  in  the 
1 highest 

raven’d  the  world,  so  Vivien  in  the 
0 lowest, 

rriving  at  a time  of  golden  rest, 

Vid  sowing  one  ill  hint  from  ear  to 
ear, 

hile  all  the  heathen  lay  at  Arthur’s 
feet, 

I; 


And  no  quest  came,  but  all  was  joust 
and  play, 

Leaven’d  his  hall.  They  heard  and 
let  her  be. 

Thereafter  as  an  enemy  that  has  left 

Death  in  the  living  waters,  and  with- 
drawn, 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur’s 
court. 

She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard 
in  thought 

Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name 
was  named. 

For  once,  when  Arthur  walking  all 
alone, 

Vext  at  a rumor  issued  from  herself 

Of  some  corruption  crept  among  his 
knights, 

Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted 
fair, 

Would  fain  have  wrought  upon  his 
cloudy  mood 

With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal, 
shaken  voice, 

And  flutter’d  adoration,  and  at  last 

With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who 
prized  him  more 

Than  who  should  prize  him  most;  at 
which  the  King 

Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone 
by  : 

But  one  had  watch’d,  and  had  not  held 
his  peace : 

It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 

That  Vivien  should  attempt  the 
blameless  King. 

And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 

Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all 
those  times, 

Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all 
their  arts, 

Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships, 
and  halls, 

Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry 
heavens ; 

The  people  call’d  him  Wizard;  whom 
at  first 

She  play’d  about  with  slight  and 
sprightly  talk, 


272 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


And  vivid  smiles,  and  faintly-venom’d 
points 

Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  grazing 
there ; 

And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods, 
the  Seer 

Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance, 
and  play, 

Ev’n  when  they  seem’d  unloveable, 
and  laugh 

As  those  that  watch  a kitten ; thus  he 
grew 

Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain  d, 
and  she, 

Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  dis- 
dain’d, 

Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver 
fits, 

Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when 
they  met 

Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 

With  such  a fixt  devotion,  that  the  old 
man, 

Tho’  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at 
times 

Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for 
love, 

And  half  believe  her  true  : for  thus  at 
times 

He  waver’d ; but  that  other  clung  to 
him, 

Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons 
went. 

Then  fell  on  Merlin  a great  melan- 
choly ; 

He  walk’d  with  dreams  and  darkness, 
and  he  found 

A doom  that  ever  poised  itself  to  fall, 

An  ever-moaning  battle  in  the  mist, 

World-war  of  dying  flesh  against  the 
life, 

Death  in  all  life  and  lying  in  all  love, 

The  meanest  having  power  upon  the 
highest, 

And  the  high  purpose  broken  by  the 
worm. 

• So  leaving  Arthur’s  court  he  gain’d 
the  beach ; 

There  found  a little  boat,  and  stept 
into  it ; 


And  Vivien  follow’d,  but  he  mark’d 
her  not. 

She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail 
the  boat 

Drave  with  a sudden  wind  across  the 
deeps, 

And  touching  Breton  sands,  they  dis- 
embark’d. 

And  then  she  follow’d  Merlin  all  the 
way, 

Ev’n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande 

For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  £ 
charm, 

The  which  if  any  wrought  on  anyom 

With  woven  paces  and  with  waving 
arms, 

The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seemV 
to  lie 

Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a hollov 
tower, 

From  which  was  no  escape  for  ever 
more ; 

And  none  could  find  that  man  fo 
evermore, 

Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrough 
the  charm 

Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dea 

And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  nam 
and  fame. 

And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  th 
charm 

Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  th 
Time, 

As  fancying  that  her  glory  would  1 
great 

According  to  his  greatness  whom  sh 
quench’d. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  ai» 
kiss’d  his  feet. 

As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  lov 

A twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair  ; 
robe 

Of  samite  without  price,  that  mo 
exprest 

Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lisson 
limbs, 

In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 

On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams 
March : 

And  while  she  kiss’d  them,  cryin 
“ Trample  me, 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


273 


Dear  feet,  that  I have  follow'd  thro' 
the  world, 

And  I will  pay  you  worship ; tread 
me  down 

And  I will  kiss  you  for  it;"  he  was 
mute : 

So  dark  a forethought  roll'd  about  his 
brain, 

As  on  a dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 

The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long 
sea-hall 

In  silence  : wherefore,  when  she  lifted 
up 

A face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and 
said, 

“ O Merlin,  do  ye  love  me  ? " and 
again, 

k‘  O Merlin,  do  ye  love  me  ? " and  once 
more, 

,4  Great  Master,  do  ye  love  me  ? " he 
was  mute. 

And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his 
heel, 

Writhed  toward  him,  slided  up  his 
knee  and  sat, 

5 Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow 
, feet 

Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his 
neck, 

Clung  like  a snake ; and  letting  her 
left  hand 

Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder,  as  a 
leaf, 

Made  with  her  right  a comb  of  pearl 
to  part 

The  lists  of  such  a beard  as  youth  gone 
out 

Had  left  in  ashes : then  he  spoke  and 
said, 

Not  looking  at  her,  “ Who  are  wise  in 
love 

Love  most,  say  least,"  and  Vivien 
answer'd  quick, 

: I sawyhe  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
, 1 n Arthur’s  arras  hall  at  Camelot : 

But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue  — O 
„ stupid  child ! 

Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it;  let  me 
think 

Silence  is  wisdom : I am  silent  then, 

And  ask  no  kiss  ;"  then  adding  all  at 
once 


“And  lo,  I clothe  myself  with  wis- 
dom," drew 

The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his 
beard 

Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her 
knee, 

And  call'd  herself  a gilded  summer  fly 

Caught  in  a great  old  tyrant  spider’s 
web, 

Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild 
wood 

Without  one  word.  So  Vivien  call’d 
herself, 

But  rather  seem'd  a lovely  baleful  star 

Veil’d  in  gray  vapor;  till  he  sadly 
smiled : 

“To  what  request  for  what  strange 
boon,"  he  said, 

“Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and 
fooleries, 

0 Vivien,  the  preamble?  yet  my 

thanks, 

For  these  have  broken  up  my  melan- 
choly." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  sau- 

cily, 

“ What,  O my  Master,  have  ye  found 
your  voice  ? 

1 bid  the  stranger  welcome.  Thanks 

at  last! 

But  yesterday  you  never  open’d  lip, 

Except  indeed  to  drink : no  cup  had 
we : 

In  mine  own  lady  palms  I cull’d  the 
spring 

That  gather'd  trickling  dropwise  from 
the  cleft, 

And  made  a pretty  cup  of  both  my 
hands 

And  offer'd  you  it  kneeling : then  you 
drank 

And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one 
poor  word ; 

O no  more  thanks  than  might  a goat 
have  given 

With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than 
a beard. 

And  when  we  halted  at  that  other 
well, 

And  I was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you 

lay 


274 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


IToot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of 
those 

Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did 
you  know 

That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before 
her  own  ? 

And  yet  no  thanks  : and  all  thro'  this 
wild  wood 

And  all  this  morning  when  I fondled 
you: 

Boon,  ay,  there  was  a boon,  one  not 
so  strange  — 

How  had  I wrong’d  you  ? surely  ye 
are  wise, 

But  such  a silence  is  more  wise  than 
kind.” 

And  Merlin  lock’d  his  hand  in  hers 
and  said  : 

“ O did  ye  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 

And  watch  the  curl’d  white  of  the 
coming  wave 

Glass’d  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it 
breaks  ? 

Ev’n  such  a wave,  but  not  so  pleasur- 
able, 

Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful 
mood, 

Had  I for  three  days  seen,  ready  to 
fall. 

And  then  I rose  and  fled  from  Arthur’s 
court 

To  break  the  mood.  Y ou  follow’d  me 
unask’d ; 

And  when  I look’d,  and  saw  you  fol- 
lowing still, 

Mymind  involved  yourself  the  nearest 
thing 

In  that  mind-mist : for  shall  I tell  you 
truth  ? 

You  seem’d  that  wave  about  to  break 
upon  me 

And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the 
world, 

My  use  and  name  and  fame.  Your 
pardon,  child. 

Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten’d  all 
again. 

And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I owe 
you  thrice, 

Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion, 
next 


For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected, 
last 

For  these  your  dainty  gambols : 
wherefore  ask ; 

And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not 
so  strange.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling  mourn- 
fully : i t 

“ O not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking 

Not  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are 
strange, 

Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood 
of  yours. 

I ever  fear’d  ye  were  not  wholly 
mine; 

And  see,  yourself  have  own  d ye  dm 
me  wrong. 

The  people  call  you  prophet:  let  it 
be  : 

But  not  of  those  that  can  expound 
themselves. 

Take  Vivien  for  expounder ; she  will 

That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom 
of  yours 

No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful 
mood 

That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  thani 
yourself, 

Whenever  I have  ask’d  this  very 
boon, 

Now  ask’d  again:  for  see  you  not 
dear  love,  . 7 

That  such  a mood  as  that,  whici 
lately  gloom’d 

Your  fancy  when  ye  saw  me  lollov 
ing  you, 

Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  arc 
not  mine, 

Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  t 
prove  you  mine, 

And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  leari 
this  charm 

Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hand 
As  proof  of  trust.  O Merlin,  teach  i 
me. 

The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  n 
both  to  rest. 

For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upo 
your  fate, 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


275 


[,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy 
trust, 

Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing 
you  mine. 

\nd  therefore  be  as  great  as  ye  are 
named, 

STot  muffled  round  with  selfish  reti- 
cence. 

low  hard  you  look  and  how  deny- 
ingly ! 

0,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 
That  I should  prove  it  on  you  una- 
wares, 

That  makes  me  passing  wrathful ; then 
our  bond 

dad  best  be  loosed  for  ever : but 
think  or  not, 

3y  Heaven  that  hears  I tell  you  the 
clean  truth, 

^s  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white 
as  milk ; 

3 Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 
if  these  unwitty  wandering  wits  of 
mine, 

Ev’n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a 
i dream, 

dave  tript  on  such  conjectural  treach- 
j ery  — 

ilay  this  hard  earth  cleave  to  the 
, Nadir  hell 

down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip 
me  flat, 

f I be  such  a traitress.  Yield  my 
),  boon, 

Till  which  I scarce  can  yield  you  all 
I am ; 

S.nd  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish, 

The  great  proof  of  your  love : because 
I think, 

however  wise,  ye  hardly  know  me 
yet.” 

I 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from 
hers  and  said, 

I never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
T>o  curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of 
trust, 

dian  when  I told  you  first  of  such  a 
, charm. 

rea,  if  ye  talk  of  trust  I tell  you  this, 
"oo  much  I trusted  when  I told  you 
that. 


And  stirr’d  this  vice  in  you  which 
ruin’d  man 

Thro’  woman  the  first  hour ; for 
howsoe’er 

In  children  a great  curiousness  be 
well, 

Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all 
the  world, 

In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I 
find 

Your  face  is  practised  when  I spell 
the  lines, 

I call  it,  — well,  I will  not  call  it  vice  : 

But  since  you  name  yourself  the 
summer  fly, 

I well  could  wish  a cobweb  for  the 
gnat, 

That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten 
back 

Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weari- 
ness : 

But  since  I will  not  yield  to  give  you 
power 

Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame, 

Why  will  ye  never  ask  some  other 
boon  ? 

Yea,  by  God’s  rood,  I trusted  you  too 
much.” 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest- 
hearted  maid 

That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 

Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with 
tears : 

“Nay,  Master,  be  not  wrathful  with 
your  maid ; 

Caress  her : let  her  feel  herself  for- 
given 

Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another 
boon. 

I think  ye  hardly  know  the  tender 
rhyme 

Of  ‘ trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.’ 

I heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it 
once, 

And  it  shall  answer  for  me.  Listen 
to  it. 

4 In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love 
be  ours, 


276 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne’er  be  equal 
powers  : 

Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in 
all. 

4 It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 

That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music 
mute, 

And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

‘The  little  rift  within  the  lover’s 
lute 

Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner’d  fruit, 

That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders 
all. 

‘ It  is  not  worth  the  keeping : let  it 
go  : 

But  shall  it  ? answer,  darling,  answer, 
no. 

And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.’ 

0 Master,  do  ye  love  my  tender 
rhyme  ? ” 

And  Merlin  look’d  and  half  believed 
her  true, 

So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her 
face, 

So  sweetly  gleam’d  her  eyes  behind 
her  tears 

Like  sunlight  on  the  plain  behind  a 
shower  : 

And  yet  he  answer’d  half  indignantly : 

“ Far  other  was  the  song  that  once 
I heard 

By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where 
we  sit : 

For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve 
of  us, 

To  chase  a creature  that  was  current 
then 

In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with 
golden  horns. 

It  was  the  time  when  first  the  ques- 
tion rose 

About  the  founding  of  a Table  Round, 

That  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and 
men 

And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the 
world. 


And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds 

And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  young- 
est of  us, 

We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he 
flash’d, 

And  into  such  a song,  such  fire  for 
fame, 

Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming 
down 

To  such  a stern  and  iron-clashing 
close, 

That  when  he  stopt  we  long’d  to  hurl 
together, 

And  should  have  done  it;  but  the 
beauteous  beast 

Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our 
feet, 

And  like  a silver  shadow  slipt  away 

Thro’  the  dim  land ; and  all  day  long 
we  rode 

Thro’  the  dim  land  against  a rushing 
wind, 

That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our 
ears, 

And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  golden 
horns 

Until  they  vanish’d  by  the  fairy  well 

That  laughs  at  iron  — as  our  warriors 
did — 

Where  children  cast  their  pins  and 
nails,  and  cry, 

‘ Laugh,  little  well ! ’ but  touch  it  with 
a sword, 

It  buzzes  fiercely  round  the  point ; and 
there 

We  lost  him  : such  a noble  song  was 
that. 

But,  Yivien,  when  you  sang  me  that 
sweet  rhyme, 

I felt  as  tho’  you  knew  this  cursed 
charm, 

Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I 
lay 

And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name 
and  fame.” 

And  Yivien  answer’d  smiling 
mournfully : 

“ O mine  have  ebb’d  away  for  ever- 
more, 

And  all  thro’  following  you  to  this 
wild  wood. 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


277 


Because  I saw  you  sad,  to  comfort 
you. 

Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men ! they 
never  mount 

As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless 
mood. 

And  touching  fame,  howe'er  ye  scorn 
my  song, 

Take  one  verse  more  — the  lady 
speaks  it  — this  : 

“ * My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine, 
is  closelier  mine, 

For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that 
fame  were  thine, 

And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine, 
that  shame  were  mine. 

So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

“ Says  she  not  well  \ and  there  is 
more  — this  rhyme 
Is  like  the  fair  pearl-necklace  of  the 
Queen, 

That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls 
were  spilt  ; 

Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics 
kept. 

But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister 
pearls 

Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss 
each  other 

pn  her  white  neck  — so  is  it  with  this 
rhyme : 

It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands, 
ind  every  minstrel  sings  it  differ- 
ently ; 

ifet  is  there  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of 
pearls  : 

Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman 
wakes  to  love.' 

Tea ! Love,  tho’  Love  were  of  the 
grossest,  carves 

^ portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
ind  uses,  careless  of  the  rest;  but 
Fame, 

'he  Fame  that  follows  death  is  noth- 
ing to  us ; 

ind  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half- 
i disfame, 

md  counterchanged  with  darkness  ? 
ye  yourself 


| Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's 
son, 

And  since  ye  seem  the  Master  of  all 
Art, 

They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of 
all  vice." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 
and  said, 

“ I once  was  looking  for  a magic  weed, 

And  found  a fair  young  squire  who 
sat  alone. 

Had  carved  himself  a knightly  shield 
of  wood, 

And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied 
arms, 

Azure,  an  Eagle  rising  or,  the  Sun 

In  dexter  chief ; the  scroll  ‘ I follow 
fame.' 

And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over 
him, 

I took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the 
bird. 

And  made  a Gardener  putting  in 
graft, 

With  this  for  motto,  4 Rather  use  than 
fame.' 

You  should  have  seen  him  blush ; but 
afterwards 

He  made  a stalwart  knight.  O Vivien, 

For  you,  methinks  you  think  you  love 
me  well ; 

For  me,  I love  you  somewhat;  rest : 
and  Love 

Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure 
in  himself, 

Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a boon, 

Too  prurient  for  a proof  against  the 
grain 

Of  him  ye  say  ye  love : but  Fame  with 
men. 

Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve 
mankind, 

Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in 
herself, 

But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love, 

That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to 
one. 

Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame 
again 

Increasing  gave  me  use.  Lo,  there 
my  boon ! 


278 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


What  other  ? for  men  sought  to  prove 
me  vile, 

Because  I fain  had  given  them  greater 
wits: 

And  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil  s 

The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help 
herself 

By  striking  at  her  better  miss  d,  and 
brought 

Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her 
own  heart. 

Sweet  were  the  days  when  I was  all 
unknown, 

But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the 

storm  _ — A 
Brake  on  the  mountain  and  I cared 

not  for  it. 

Right  well  know  I that  Fame  is  halt- 
disfame, 

Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.  1 hat 
other  fame, 

To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children, 
vague, 

The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the 
grave, 

I cared  not  for  it : a single  misty  star, 
Which  is  the  second  in  a line  of  stars 
That  seem  a sword  beneath  a belt  of 
three, 

I never  gazed  upon  it  but  I dreamt 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that 

To  make  fame  nothing.  Wherefore, 
if  I fear, 

Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro’  this 
charm, 

That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  hav- 
ing power, 

However  well  ye  think  ye  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 
Have  turn’d  to  tyrants  when  they 
came  to  power) 

I rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than 
fame ; 

jf  you  — and  not  so  much  from 
wickedness, 

As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a mood 
Of  overstrain’d  affection,  it  may  be, 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  — or 
else 

A sudden  spurt  of  woman’s  jealousy,— 


Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  ye  say 
ye  love.” 


And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling  as  in 
wrath : 

“ Have  I not  sworn  1 I am  not  trusted. 
Good! 

Well,  hide  it,  hide  it ; I shall  find  it 
out ; . 

And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 

A woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 

Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger 
born 

Of  your  misfaith ; and  your  fine 
epithet 

Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of 
mine 

Without  the  full  heart  back  may 
merit  well 

Your  term  of  overstrain’d.  So  used 


do  Xy  * 

My  daily  wonder  is,  I love  at  all. 

And  as  to  woman’s  jealousy,  O why 
not  ? 

0 to  what  end,  except  a jealous  one, 
And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I love, 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  your 

self  ? 

1 well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
Ye  cage  a buxom  captive  here  anc 

there 

Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a hollow 


tower 

From  which  is  no  escape  for  ever 
more.” 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  an 
swer’dher: 

“ Full  many  a love  in  loving  youti 
was  mine ; 

I needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  ther 
mine 

But  youth  and  love;  and  that  tu 
heart  of  yours 

Whereof  ye  prattle,  may  now  assur 
you  mine ; 

So  live  uncharm’d.  For  those  wh 
wrought  it  first, 

The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  han 
that  waved, 

The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ank 
bones 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


279 


Who  paced  it,  ages  back  : but  will  ye 
hear 

The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your 
rhyme  ? 

“There  lived  a king  in  the  most 
Eastern  East, 

Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my 
blood 

Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 

A tawny  pirate  anchor’d  in  his  port, 

Whose  bark  had  plunder’d  twenty 
nameless  isles ; 

And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of 
dawn, 

He  saw  two  cities  in  a thousand  boats 

All  lighting  for  a woman  on  the  sea. 

And  pushing  his  black  craft  among 
them  all, 

He  lightly  scatter’d  theirs  and  brought 
her  off, 

With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow- 
slain  ; 

A maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  won- 
derful, 

They  said  a light  came  from  her  when 
she  moved : 

And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield 
her  up, 

I The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy ; 

Then  made  her  Queen  : but  those  isle- 
nurtured  eyes 

Waged  such  unwilling  tho’  successful 
war 

On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken’d  ; coun- 
cils thinn’d, 

;|And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like 
she  drew 

jjThe  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters’ 
hearts ; 

[£  And  beasts  themselves  would  worship; 
camels  knelt 

^Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain 
back 

^Tliat  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow’d 
black  knees 

Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent 
hands, 

To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle- 
bells. 

What  wonder,  being  jealous,  that  he 
sent 


His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro! 
all 

The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he 
sway’d 

To  find  a wizard  who  might  teach  the 
King 

Some  charm,  which  being  wrought 
upon  the  Queen 

Might  keep  her  all  his  own  : to  such  a 
one 

He  promised  more  than  ever  king  has 
given, 

A league  of  mountain  full  of  golden 
mines, 

A province  with  a hundred  miles  of 
coast, 

A palace  and  a princess,  all  for 
him  : 

But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail’d, 
the  King 

Pronounced  a dismal  sentence,  mean- 
ing by  it 

To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders 
back, 

Or  like  a king,  not  to  be  trifled  with  — 

Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the 
city  gates. 

And  many  tried  and  fail’d,  because 
the  charm 

Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own : 

And  many  a wizard  brow  bleach’d  on 
the  walls  : 

And  many  weeks  a troop  of  carrion 
crows 

Hung  like  a cloud  above  the  gateway 
towers.” 

And  Vivien  breaking  in  upon  him> 
said : 

“ I sit  and  gather  honey ; yet,  me- 
thinks, 

Thy  tongue  has  tript  a little  : ask  thy- 
self. 

The  lady  never  made  unwilling  war 

With  those  fine  eyes : she  had  her 
pleasure  in  it, 

And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with 
good  cause. 

And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor 
damsel  then 

Wroth  at  a lover’s  loss  1 were  all  aa 
tame, 


280 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


I mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was 
fair  ? 

Not  one  to  flirt  a venom  at  her  eyes, 

Or  pinch  a murderous  dust  into  her 
drink, 

Or  make  her  paler  with  a poison’d 
rose1? 

Well,  those  were  not  our  days : but 
did  they  find 

A wizard  ? Tell  me,  was  he  like  to 
thee  ? ” 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm 
round  his  neck 

Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let 
her  eyes 

Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a 
bride’s 

On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of 
men. 

He  answer’d  laughing,  “Nay,  not 
like  to  me. 

At  last  they  found  — his  foragers  for 
charms  — 

A little  glassy-headed  hairless  man, 

Who  lived  alone  in  a great  wild  on 
grass ; 

Bead  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading 
grew 

So  grated  down  and  filed  away  with 
thought. 

So  lean  his  eyes  were  monstrous ; 
while  the  skin 

Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs 
and  spine. 

And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one 
sole  aim, 

Nor  ever  touch’d  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted 
flesh, 

Nor  own’d  a sensual  wish,  to  him  the 
wall 

That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-cast- 
ing men 

Became  a crystal,  and  he  saw  them 
thro’  it, 

And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind 
the  wall, 

And  learnt  their  elemental  secrets, 
powers 

And  forces  ; often  o’er  the  sun’s  bright 

eye 


Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud, 

And  lash’d  it  at  the  base  with  slanting 
storm ; 

Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving 
ram, 

When  the  lake  whiten’d  and  the  pine- 
wood  roar’d, 

And  the  cairn’d  mountain  was  a 
shadow,  sunn’d 

The  world  to  peace  again : here  was 
the  man. 

And  so  by  force  they  dragg’d  him  to 
the  King. 

And  then  he  taught  the  King  to 
charm  the  Queen 

In  such-wise,  that  no  man  could  see 
her  more, 

Nor  saw  she  save  the  King,  who 
wrought  the  charm, 

Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as 
dead, 

And  lost  all  use  of  life  : but  when  the 
King 

Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden 
mines, 

The  province  with  a hundred  miles  of 
coast, 

The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old 
man 

Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived 
on  grass, 

And  vanish’d,  and  his  book  came 
down  to  me.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling  sau- 
cily: 

“Ye  have  the  book:  the  charm  is 
written  in  it : 

Good  : take  my  counsel : let  me  know 
it  at  once : 

For  keep  it  like  a puzzle  chest  in 
chest, 

With  each  chest  lock’d  and  padlock’d 
thirty-fold, 

And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a 
mound 

As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the 
slain 

On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy 
deep, 

I yet  should  strike  upon  a sudden 
means 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


281 


o dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the 
charm : 

hen,  if  I tried  it,  who  should  blame 
me  then  ? ” 

And  smiling  as  a master  smiles  at 
one 

hat  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any 
school 

ut  that  where  blind  and  naked 
Ignorance 

elivers  brawling  judgments,  una- 
shamed, 

n all  things  all  day  long,  he  answer’d 
her: 

“ Thou  read  the  book,  my  pretty 
Yivien! 

ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 

ut  every  page  having  an  ample 
marge, 

nd  every  marge  enclosing  in  the 
midst 

square  of  text  that  looks  a little 
blot, 

he  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of 
fleas ; 

nd  every  square  of  text  an  awful 
charm, 

rrit  in  a language  that  has  long  gone 

by. 

) long,  that  mountains  have  arisen 
since 

rith  cities  on  their  flanks  — thou  read 
the  book ! 

nd  every  margin  scribbled,  crost, 
and  cramm’d 

rith  comment,  densest  condensation, 
hard 

o mind  and  eye  ; but  the  long  sleep- 
less nights 

f my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to 
me. 

nd  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even 

I; 

nd  none  can  read  the  comment  but 
myself ; 

nd  in  the  comment  did  I find  the 
charm. 

, the  results  are  simple ; a mere 
child 

ight  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one, 


And  never  could  undo  it : ask  no 
more : 

For  tho’  you  should  not  prove  it  upon 
me, 

But  keep  that  oath  ye  sware,  ye 
might,  perchance, 

Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table 
Round, 

And  all  because  ye  dream  they  babble 
of  you.” 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger, 
said  : 

“ What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of 
me  ? 

They  ride  abroad  redressing  human 
wrongs  ! 

They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine 
in  horn ! 

They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity  ! 

Were  I not  woman,  I could  tell  a tale. 

But  you  are  man,  you  well  can  under- 
stand 

The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain’d 
for  shame. 

Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch 
me : swine  ! ” 

Then  answer’d  Merlin  careless  of 
her  words : 

“ You  breathe  but  accusation  vast  and 
vague. 

Spleen-born,  I think,  and  proofless. 
If  ye  know, 

Set  up  the  charge  ye  know,  to  stand 
or  fall!” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  frowning 
wrathf  ully : 

“ O ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence, 
him 

Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o’er 
his  wife 

And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  dis- 
tant lands ; 

Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning 
found 

Not  two  but  three  ? there  lay  the 
reckling,  one 

But  one  hour  old'  What  said  the 
happy  sire  ? 


282 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


A seven-months’  babe  had  been  a 
truer  gift. 

Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused 
his  fatherhood.” 

Then  answer’d  Merlin,  “Nay,  I 
know  the  tale. 

Sir  Valence  wedded  with  an  outland 
dame  : 

Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder’d 
from  his  wife : 

One  child  they  had  : it  lived  with  her : 
she  died : 

His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own 
affair 

Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring 
home  the  child. 

He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore  : 
take  the  truth.” 

“O  ay,”  said  Vivien,  “overtrue  a 
tale. 

What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sag- 
ramore, 

That  ardent  man  ? ‘ to  pluck  the 
flower  in  season,’ 

So  says  the  song,  ‘ I trow  it  is  no 
treason.’ 

0 Master,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 

To  crop  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the 

hour  ? ” 

And  Merlin  answer’d,  “Overquick 
art  thou 

To  catch  a loathly  plume  fall’n  from 
the  wing 

Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose 
whole  prey 

Is  man’s  good  name  : he  never  wrong’d 
his  bride. 

1 know  the  tale.  An  angry  gust  of 

wind 

Puff’d  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad- 
room’d 

And  many-corridor’d  complexities 

Of  Arthur’s  palace : then  he  found  a 
door, 

And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured 
ornament 

That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem 
his  own; 


And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch 
and  slept, 

A stainless  man  beside  a stainless 
maid ; 

And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other 
there ; 

Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal 
rose 

In  Arthur’s  casement  glimmer’d 
chastely  down, 

Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at 
once 

He  rose  without  a word  and  parted 
from  her : 

But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about 
the  court, 

The  brute  world  howling  forced  them 
into  bonds, 

And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy, 
being  pure.” 

“ 0 ay,”  said  Vivien,  “ that  were 
likely  too. 

What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 

And  of  the  horrid  foulness  that  he 
wrought, 

The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb 
of  Christ, 

Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan’s 
fold. 

What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel- 
yard, 

Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  the 
graves, 

And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the 
dead ! ” 

And  Merlin  answer’d  careless  of  her 
charge, 

“A  sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure; 

But  once  in  life  was  fluster’d  with  new 
wine, 

Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel- 
yard  ; 

Where  one  of  Satan’s  shepherdesses 
caught 

And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her 
master’s  mark  ; 

And  that  he  sinn’d  is  not  believable ; 

For,  look  upon  his  face  ! — but  if  h« 
sinn’d. 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


283 


The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the 
blood, 

\nd  not  the  one  dark  hour  which 
brings  remorse, 

Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we 
be: 

)r  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose 
hymns 

Vre  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse 
than  all. 

3ut  is  your  spleen  froth’d  out,  or  have 
ye  more  ? ” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  frowning  yet 
in  wrath  : 

‘ 0 ay ; what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot, 
friend 

Traitor  or  true  ? that  commerce  with 
the  Queen, 

ask  you,  is  it  clamor’d  by  the  child, 

)r  whisper’d  in  the  corner  ? do  ye 
know  it?  ” 

To  which  he  answer’d  sadly,  “ Yea, 
I know  it. 

pir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at 
first, 

To  fetch  her,  and  she  watch’d  him 
from  her  walls. 

iL  rumor  runs,  she  took  him  for  the 
King, 

do  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  : let  them  be. 

3ut  have  ye  no  one  word  of  loyal 

H praise 

•'or  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stain- 
less man  ? ” 

She  answer’d  with  a low  and  chuck- 
ling laugh : 

f Man ! is  he  man  at  all,  who  knows 

1 and  winks  ? 

iees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does, 
and  winks  ? 

>y  which  the  good  King  means  to 
blind  himself, 

tnd  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table 

3 Kound 

"o  all  the  foulness  that  they  work. 
Myself 

^ould  call  him  (were  it  not  for 
womanhood) 


The  pretty,  popular  name  such  man- 
hood earns, 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all 
their  crime ; 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown’d  King, 
coward,  and  fool.” 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart, 
loathing,  said  : 

“ O true  and  tender ! O my  liege  and 
King ! 

O selfless  man  and  stainless  gentle- 
man, 

Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye- 
witness fain 

Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women 
pure ; 

How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  inter- 
preters. 

From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 

To  things  with  every  sense  as  false 
and  foul 

As  the  poach’d  filth  that  floods  the 
middle  street, 

Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted 
blame ! ” 

But  Vivien,  deeming  Merlin  over- 
borne 

By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let 
her  tongue 

Rage  like  a fire  among  the  noblest 
names. 

Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole 
self, 

Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 

Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad 
clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she 
will’d. 

He  dragg’d  his  eyebrow  bushes  down, 
and  made 

A snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow 
eyes, 

And  mutter’d  in  himself,  “ Tell  her  the 
charm ! 

So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 

To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it 
not 

So  will  she  rail.  What  did  the  wan- 
ton say  ? 


284 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN . 


( Not  mount  as  high  ; ’ we  scarce  can 
sink  as  low  : 

For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and 
earth, 

But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven 
and  Hell. 

I know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends 
of  old; 

All  brave,  and  many  generous,  and 
some  chaste. 

She  cloaks  the  scar  of  some  repulse 
with  lies ; 

I well  believe  she  tempted  them  and 
fail’d, 

Being  so  bitter : for  fine  plots  ifiay 
fail, 

Tho’  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well 
as  face 

With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not 
theirs. 

I will  not  let  her  know : nine  tithes  of 
times 

Face-flatterer  and  backbiter  are  the 
same. 

And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  im- 
pute a crime 

Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  them- 
selves, 

Wanting  the  mental  range;  or  low 
desire 

Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level 
all ; 

Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain 
to  the  plain, 

To  leave  an  equal  baseness ; and  in 
this 

Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if 
they  find 

Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a name  bf 
note, 

Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so 
small, 

Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane 
delight, 

And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of 
clay, 

Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and 
see 

Her  godlike  head  crown’d  with  spir- 
itual fire, 

And  touching  other  worlds.  I am 
weary  of  her.” 


He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in 
whispers  part, 

Half-suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 

And  many-winter’d  fleece  of  throat 
and  chin. 

But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of 
his  mood, 

And  hearing  “ harlot  ” mutter’d  twice 
or  thrice. 

Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and 
stood 

Stiff  as  a viper  frozen ; loathsome 
sight. 

How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and 
love, 

Flash’d  the  bare-grinning  skeleton  of 
death ! 

White  was  her  cheek ; sharp  breaths 
of  anger  puff’d 

Her  fairy  nostril  out ; her  hand  half- 
clench’d 

Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to 
her  belt, 

And  feeling;  had  she  found  a dagger 
there 

(For  in  a wink  the  false  love  turns 
to  hate) 

She  would  have  stabb’d  him ; but  she 
found  it  not : 

His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she 
took 

To  bitter  weeping  like  a beaten  child, 

A long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 

Then  her  false  voice  made  way,  broken 
with  sobs : 

“ O crueller  than  was  ever  told  in 
tale, 

Or  sung  in  song ! O vainly  lavish’d 
love ! 

O cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or 
strange, 

Or  seeming  shameful — -for  what 
shame  in  love, 

So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is  — 
nothing 

Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his 
trust 

Who  call’d  her  what  he  call’d  her  — 
all  her  crime, 

All  — all  — the  wish  to  prove  him 
wholly  hers.” 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


285 


She  mused  a little,  and  then  clapt 
her  hands 

Together  with  a wailing  shriek,  and 
said : 

“ Stabb’d  through  the  heart’s  affec- 
tions to  the  heart! 

Seethed  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother’s 
milk ! 

Kill’d  with  a word  worse  than  a life 
of  blows ! 

I thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being 
great : 

0 God,  that  I had  loved  a smaller  man  ! 

1 should  have  found  in  him  a greater 

heart. 

O,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion, 
saw 

The  knights,  the  court,  the  King,  dark 
in  your  light, 

Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than 
they  are, 

Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which 
I had 

To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 

Of  worship  — I am  answer’d,  and 
henceforth 

The  course  of  life  that  seem’d  so 
flowery  to  me 

With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only 
you, 

Becomes  the  sea-cliff  pathway  broken 
short, 

And  ending  in  a ruin  — nothing  left, 
i But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and 
there, 

If  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life 
away, 

Kill’d  with  inutterable  unkindliness.” 

She  paused,  she  turn’d  away,  she 
hung  her  head, 

The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair, 
the  braid 

I Slipt  and  uncoil’d  itself,  she  wept 
afresh, 

And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker 
toward  the  storm 

In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 
- Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 

Tor  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed 
her  true : 

Call’d  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 


“ Come  from  the  storm,”  and  having 
no  reply, 

Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and 
the  face 

Hand-hidden,  as  for  utmost  grief  or 
shame ; 

Then  thrice  essay’d,  by  tenderest- 
toucliing  terms, 

To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in 
vain. 

At  last  she  let  herself  be  conquer’d  by 
him, 

And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  re* 
turns, 

The  seeming-injured,  simple-hearted 
thing 

Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  set- 
tled there. 

There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from 
his  knees, 

Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he 
saw 

The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  closed 
eye-lid  yet, 

About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in 
love, 

The  gentle  wizard  cast  a shielding 
arm. 

But  she  dislink’d  herself  at  once  and 
rose, 

Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and 
stood, 

A virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply 
wrong’d, 

Upright  and  flush’d  before  him : then 
she  said : 

“ There  must  be  now  no  passages  of 
love 

Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  ever- 
more ; 

Since,  if  I be  what  I am  grossly  call’d, 

What  should  be  granted  which  your 
own  gross  heart 

Would  reckon  worth  the  taking?  I 
will  go. 

In  truth,  but  one  thing  now  — better 
have  died 

Thrice  than  have  ask’d  it  once  — could 
make  me  stay  — 

That  proof  of  trust  — so  often  ask’d 
in  vain ! 


286 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN ' 


How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of 
yours, 

I find  with  grief  ! I might  believe  you 
then, 

Who  knows  ? once  more.  Lo  ! what 
was  once  to  me 

Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  hath 
grown 

The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 

Farewell ; think  gently  of  me,  for  I 
fear 

My  fate  or  folly,  passing  gayer  youth 

For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  thee 
still. 

But  ere  I leave  thee  let  me  swear  once 
more 

That  if  I schemed  against  thy  peace 
in  this, 

May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens 
o’er  me,  send 

One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else, 
may  make 

My  scheming  brain  a cinder,  if  I 
lie.” 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of 
heaven  a bolt 

(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above 
them)  struck, 

Furrowing  a giant  oak,  and  javelining 

With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of 
the  wood 

The  dark  earth  round.  He  raised  his 
eyes  and  saw 

The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro’ 
the  gloom. 

But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard 
her  oath, 

And  dazzled  by  the  livid-flickering 
fork, 

And  deafen’d  with  the  stammering 
cracks  and  claps 

That  follow’d,  flying  back  and  crying 
out, 

“ O Merlin,  tho’  you  do  not  love  me, 
save, 

Yet  save  me ! ” clung  to  him  and 
hugg’d  him  close ; 

And  call’d  him  dear  protector  in  her 
fright,  . 

Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her 
fright, 


But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and 
hugg’d  him  close. 

The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her 
touch 

Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal 
warm’d. 

She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay 
tales : 

She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  faul 
she  wept 

Of  petulancy ; she  call’d  him  lord  and 
liege, 

Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of 
eve, 

Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passion- 
ate love 

Of  her  whole  life  ; and  ever  overhead 

Bellow’d  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten 
branch 

Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 

Above  them ; and  in  change  of  glare 
and  gloom 

Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and 
came ; 

Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion 
spent, 

Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other 
lands, 

Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet 
once  more 

To  peace ; and  what  should  not  have 
been  had  been, 

For  Merlin,  overtalk’d  and  overworn, 

Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm, 
and  slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth 
the  charm 

Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 

And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 

And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame. 

Then  crying  “ I have  made  his  glory 
mine,” 

And  shrieking  out  “O  fool!”  the  har- 
lot leapt 

Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket 
closed 

Behind  her,  and  the  forest  echod 
“fool” 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE . 


287 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  loveable, 

Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 

High  in  her  chamber  up  a tower  to 
the  east 

Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lance- 
lot; 

Which  first  she  placed  where  morn- 
ing's earliest  ray 

Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with 
the  gleam ; 

Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure  fashion'd 
for  it 

A case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 

All  the  devices  blazon’d  on  the  shield 

In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her 
wit, 

A border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 

And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the 
nest. 

Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by 
day, 

Leaving  her  household  and  good 
father,  climb’d 

That  eastern  tower,  and  entering 
barr’d  her  door, 

Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 
shield, 

Now  guess’d  a hidden  meaning  in  his 
arms, 

Now  made  a pretty  history  to  herself 

Of  every  dint  a sword  had  beaten  in 
it, 

And  every  scratch  a lance  had  made 
upon  it, 

.Conjecturing  when  and  where : this 
cut  is  fresh; 

That  ten  years  back ; this  dealt  him 
at  Caerlyle  ; 

'That  at  Caerleon  ; this  at  Camelot  : 

And  ah  God’s  mercy,  what  a stroke 
was  there ! 

And  here  a thrust  that  might  have 
kill'd,  but  God 

Broke  the  strong  lance  and  roll’d  his 
enemy  down, 

And  saved  him : so  sh  3 lived  in  fan- 
tasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that 
good  shield 


Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n 
his  name  ? 

He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to 
tilt 

Eor  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond 
jousts, 

Which  Arthur  had  ordain’d,  and  by 
that  name 

Had  named  them,  since  a diamond 
was  the  prize. 

Eor  Arthur,  long  before  they 
crown’d  him  King, 

Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyon- 
nesse, 

Had  found  a glen,  gray  boulder  and 
black  tarn. 

A horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and 
clave 

Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain 
side : 

For  here  two  brothers,  one  a king, 
had  met 

And  fought  together  ; but  their  names 
were  lost ; 

And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a 
blow ; 

And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 
abhorr’d : 

And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones 
were  bleach’d, 

And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags  : 

And  he,  that  once  was  king,  had  on  a 
crown 

Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four 
aside. 

And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the 
pass, 

All  in  a misty  moonshine,  unawares 

Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton, 
and  the  skull 

Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the 
skull  the  crown 

Roll’d  into  light,  and  turning  on  its 
rims 

Fled  like  a glittering  rivulet  to  the 
tarn : 

And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he 
plunged,  and  caught, 

And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 

Heard  murmurs,  “Lo,  thou  likewise 
shalt  be  King.” 


288 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Thereafter,  when  a King,  he  had  the 

gemS 

Pluck'd  from  the  crown,  and  show  d 
them  to  his  knights, 

Saying  “ These  jewels,  whereupon  I 
chanced 

Divinely,  are  the  kingdom  s,  not  the 
King's  — 

For  public  use:  henceforward  let 
there  be, 

Once  every  year,  a joust  for  one  of 
these : 

For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs 
must  learn 

Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves 
shall  grow 

In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we 
drive 

The  heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule 
the  land 

Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."  Thus 
he  spoke : 

And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had 
been,  and  still 

Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the 
year, 

With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the 
Queen, 

When  all  were  won ; but  meaning  all 
at  once 

To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a boon 

Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never 
spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and 
the  last 

And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his 
court 

Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 
now 

Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a 
joust 

At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew 
nigh 

Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to 
Guinevere, 

*<  Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  can- 
not move 

To  these  fair  jousts  ? " “Yea,  lord, 

she  said,  “ye  know  it.” 

“ Then  will  ye  miss,"  he  answer  d, 
“ the  great  deeds 


Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the 


lists, 

A sight  ye  love  to  look  on."  And  the 
Queen 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  lan- 


guidly 

On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside 
the  King. 

He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 
there, 

“ Stay  with  me,  I am  sick;  my  love  is 
more 

Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded ; and 


a heart 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the 
Queen 

(However  much  he  yearn'd  to  make 
complete 

The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined 
boon) 

Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth, 
and  say, 

“ Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is 
hardly  whole, 

And  lets  me  from  the  saddle ; " and 
the  King 

Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and 


went  his  way. 

No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she 
began : 


“ To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot, 
much  to  blame ! 

Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts  ? 
the  knights 

Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 
crowd 

Will  murmur,  ‘ Lo  the  shameless 
ones,  who  take 

Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  King 
is  gone!’” 

Then  Lancelot  vext  at  having  lied  in 
vain : 

“ Are  ye  so  wise  ? ye  were  not  once 
so  wise, 

My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  ye 
loved  me  first. 

Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more 
account 

Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the 
mead, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE 


289 


V'hen  its  own  voice  clings  to  each 
blade  of  grass, 

,nd  every  voice  is  nothing.  As  to 
knights, 

'hem  surely  can  I silence  with  all 
ease. 

ut  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow’d 

f all  men:  many  a bard,  without 
offence, 

'as  link’d  our  names  together  in  his 
lay, 

ancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery, 
Guinevere, 

he  pearl  of  beauty  : and  our  knights 
at  feast 

.ave  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while 
the  King 

T ould  listen  smiling.  How  then  ? is 
there  more  ? 

as  Arthur  spoken  aught  ? or  would 
yourself, 

ow  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir, 

enceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless 
lord  ? ” 


She  broke  into  a little  scornful 
laugh : 

Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  fault- 
less King, 

hat  passionate  perfection,  my  good 
lord  — 

ut  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in 
heaven  ? 

e never  spake  word  of  reproach  to 


me, 

e never  had  a glimpse  of  mine  un- 
truth, 

e cares  not  for  me  : only  here  to-day 
here  gleam’d  a vague  suspicion  in  his 
eyes : 

)me  meddling  rogue  has  tamper’d 
with  him — else 

apt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
nd  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 
o make  them  like  himself : but, 
friend,  to  me 

e is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at 

all: 

or  who  loves  me  must  have  a touch 
of  earth ; 

he  low  sun  makes  the  color . I am 
yours, 


Not  Arthur’s,  as  ye  know,  save  by 
the  bond. 

And  therefore  hear  my  words : go  tc 
the  jousts : 

The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break 
our  dream 

When  sweetest ; and  the  vermin 
voices  here 

May  buzz  so  loud  — we  scorn  them, 
but  they  sting.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  the  chief 
of  knights : 

“ And  with  what  face,  after  my  pre- 
text made, 

Shall  I appear,  O Queen,  at  Camelot, 

I 

Before  a King  who  honors  his  own 
work, 

As  if  it  were  his  God’s  ? ” 

“ Yea,”  said  the  Queen, 

“ A moral  child  without  the  craft  to 
rule. 

Else  had  he  not  lost  me  : but  listen  to 
me. 

If  I must  find  you  wit:  we  hear  it 
said 

That  men  go  down  before  your  spear 
at  a touch, 

But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot ; your 
great  name, 

This  conquers:  hide  it  therefore;  go 
unknown : 

Win!  by  this  kiss  you  will:  and  our 
true  King 

Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  O my 
knight, 

As  all  for  glory ; for  to  speak  him 
true. 

Ye  know  right  well,  how  meek  soe’er 
he  seem, 

No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 

He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than 
himself : 

They  prove  to  him  his  work : win  and 
return.” 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to 
horse, 

Wroth  at  himself.  Not  willing  to  be 
known, 


290 


LANCELOI'  AND  ELAINE. 


He  left  the  barren-beaten  thorough- 
fare, 

Chose  the  green  path  that  show’d  the 
rarer  foot, 

And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 

Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his 
way; 

Till  as  he  traced  a faintly-shadow’d 
track, 

That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the 
dales 

Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 

Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a hill,  the 
towers. 

Thither  he  made,  and  blew  the  gate- 
way horn. 

Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad- 
wrinkled  man, 

Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  dis- 
arm’d. 

And  Lancelot  marvelTd  at  the  word- 
less man; 

And  issuing  found  the  lord  of  Astolat 

With  two  strong  sons,  Sir  Torre  and 
Sir  Lavaine, 

Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle 
court ; 

And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily 
maid 

Elaine,  his  daughter:  mother  of  the 
house 

There  was  not:  some  light  jest 
among  them  rose 

With  laughter  dying  down  as  the 
great  knight 

Approach’d  them  : then  the  Lord  of 
Astolat : 

“ Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and 
by  what  name 

Invest  between  the  lips  ? for  by  thy 
state 

And  presence  I might  guess  thee 
chief  of  those, 

After  the  King,  who  eat  in  Arthur’s 
halls. 

Him  have  I seen : the  rest,  his  Table 
Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are 
unknown.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  the  chief 
of  knights : 


“ Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur’s  hall, 
and  known, 

What  I by  mere  mischance  have 
brought,  my  shield. 

But  since  I go  to  joust  as  one  un 
known 

At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me 
not, 

Hereafter  ye  shall  know  me  — and 
the  shield  — 

I pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you 
have, 

Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device 
not  mine.” 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat, 
“ Here  is  Torre’s  : 

Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir 
Torre. 

And  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank 
enough. 

His  ye  can  have.”  Then  added  plain 
Sir  Torre, 

“ Yea,  since  I cannot  use  it,  ye  may 
have  it.” 

Here  laugh’d  the  father  saying,  “Fie, 
Sir  Churl, 

Is  that  an  answer  for  a noble  knight 7 

Allow  him ! but  Lavaine,  my  younger 
here, 

He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,he  will  ride: 

Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  irj 
an  hour, 

And  set  it  in  this  damsel’s  goldep 
hair, 

To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  bej 
fore.” 

“Nay,  father,  nay  good  father 
shame  me  not 

Before  this  noble  knight,”  said  youn^ 
Lavaine, 

“ For  nothing.  Surely  I but  play’d 
on  Torre : 

He  seem’d  so  sullen,  vext  he  could 
not  go : 

A jest,  no  more ! for,  knight,  tin 
maiden  dreamt 

That  some  one  put  this  diamond  ii 
her  hand, 

And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be 
held. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


291 


And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or 
stream, 

The  castle-well,  belike ; and  then  I 
said 

That  if  I went  and  if  I fought  and 
won  it 

(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  our- 
selves) 

Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.  All 
was  jest. 

But,  father,  give  me  leave,  an  if  he 
will. 

To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble 
knight : 

Win  shall  1 not,  but  do  my  best  to 
win  : 

Young  as  1 am,  yet  would  I do  my 
best.” 

“ So  ye  will  grace  m%,”  answer’d 
Lancelot, 

Smiling  a moment,  “ with  your  fellow- 
ship 

O’er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I 
lost  myself, 

Then  were  I glad  of  you  as  guide  and 
friend  : 

And  you  shall  win  this  diamond,  — 
as  I hear 

9 It  is  a fair  large  diamond, — if  ye 

,i  may, 

And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye 

,r  Will.” 

“ A fair  large  diamond,”  added  plain 
Sir  Torre, 

“ Such  be  for  queens,  and  not  for  sim- 
ple maids.” 

Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost 
about, 

Flush’d  slightly  at  the  slight  dispar- 
agement 

Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  look- 
ing at  her, 

Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus 
return’d  : 

,j  “ If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is 
fair, 

And  onljr  queens  are  to  be  counted  so, 

Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who 
deem  this  maid 


Might  wear  as  fair  a jewel  as  is  on 
earth, 

Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like.” 

He  spoke  and  ceased : the  lily  maid 
Elaine, 

Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she 
look’d, 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  linea- 
ments. 

The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the 
Queen, 

In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  hie 
lord, 

Had  marr’d  hi's  face,  and  mark’d  it 
ere  his  time. 

Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with 
one, 

The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the 
world, 

Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it:  but  in 
him 

His  mood  was  often  like  a fiend,  and 
. rose 

And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  soli- 
tudes 

For  agony,  who  was  yet  a living  soul. 

Marr’d  as  he  was,  he  seem’d  the  good- 
liest man 

That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  hall, 

And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her 
eyes. 

However  marr’d,  of  more  than  twice 
her  years, 

Seam’d  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on 
the  cheek, 

And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 
her  eyes 

And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which 
was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling 
of  the  court, 

Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude 
hall 

Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half 
disdain 

Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a smaller  time, 

But  kindly  man  moving  among  his 
kind : 

Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage 
of  their  best 


292 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  enter- 
tain’d. 

And  much  they  ask’d  of  court  and 
Table  Round, 

And  ever  well  and  readily  answer’d 
he  : 

But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at 
Guinevere, 

Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless 
man, 

Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years 
before. 

The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of 
his  tongue. 

“ He  learnt  and  warn’d  me  of  their 
fierce  design 

Against  my  house,  and  him  they 
caught  and  maim’d ; 

But  I,  my  sons,  and  little  daughter 
fled 

From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among 
the  woods 

By  the  great  river  in  a boatman’s 
hut. 

Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good 
Arthur  broke 

The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon 
hill.” 

“0  there,  great  lord,  doubtless,” 
Lavaine  said,  rapt 

By  all  the  sw.eet  and  sudden  passion 
of  youth  % 

Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  “you 
have  fought. 

0 tell  us  — for  we  live  apart  — you 

know 

Of  Arthur’s  glorious  wars.”  And 
Lancelot  spoke 

And  answer’d  him  at  full,  as  having 
been 

With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all 
day  long 

Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  vio- 
lent Glem ; 

And  in  the  four  loud  battles  by  the 
shore 

Of  Duglas ; that  on  Bassa ; then  the 
war 

That  thunder’d  in  and  out  the  gloomy 
skirts 

01  Celidon  the  forest ; and  again 


| By  castle  Gurnion,  where  the  glorious 
King 

Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady’s 
Head, 

Carved  of  one  emerald  center’d  in  a 
sun 

Of  silver  rays,  that  lighten’d  as  he 
breathed ; 

And  at  Caerleon  had  he  helped  his 
lord, 

When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild 
white  Horse 

Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering  ; 

And  up  in  Agned-Cathregonion  too, 

And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of 
Trath  Treroit, 

Where  many  a heathen  fell ; “ and  on 
the  mount 

Of  Badon  I myself  beheld  the  King 

Charge  at4the  head  of  all  his  Table 
Round, 

And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and 
him, 

And  break  them ; and  I saw  him,  after, 
stand 

High  on  a heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to 
plume 

Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen 
blood, 

And  seeing  me,  with  a great  voice  he 
cried, 

* They  are  broken,  they  are  broken ! ’ 
for  the  King, 

However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor 
cares 

For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the 
jousts  — 

For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down, , 
he  laughs 

Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men 
than  he  — 

Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of 
God 

Fills  him  : I never  saw  his  like : there 
lives 

No  greater  leader.” 

While  he  utter’d  this, 

Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily 
maid, 

“Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord;” 
and  when  he  fell 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


293 


From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleas- 
antry — 

Being  mirthful  he,  but  in  a stately 
kind  — 

She  still  took  note  that  when  the 
living  smile 

Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came 
a cloud 

3f  melancholy  severe,  from  which 
again, 

Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and 
fro 

The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him 
cheer, 

There  brake  a sudden-beaming  ten- 
derness 

3f  manners  and  of  nature:  and  she 
thought 

That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance, 
for  her. 

And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her 
lived, 

Vs  when  a painter,  poring  on  a face, 

divinely  thro’  all  hindrance  finds  the 
man 

behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his 
face, 

Che  shape  and  color  of  a mind  and 
life, 

fives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 

Vnd  fullest;  so  the  face  before  her 
lived, 

)ark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence, 
full 

)f  noble  things,  and  held  her  from 
her  sleep. 

fill  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the 
thought 

he  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet 
Lavaine. 

'irst  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she 

j.  stole 

>own  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitat- 
ing: 

.non,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in 
the  court, 

This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it  ? ” 
and  Lavaine 

ast  inward,  as  she  came  from  out 
the  tower. 

here  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot 
turn’d,  and  smooth’d 


The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to 
himself. 

Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand, 
she  drew 

Nearer  and  stood.  He  look’d,  and 
more  amazed 

Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him, 
saw 

The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy 
light. 

He  had  not  dream’d  she  was  so  beau- 
tiful. 

Then  came  on  him  a sort  of  sacred 
fear. 

For  silent,  tho’  he  greeted  her,  she 
stood 

Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a God’s. 

Suddenly  flash’d  on  her  a wild  desire, 

That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the 
tilt. 

She  braved  a riotous  heart  in  asking 
for  it. 

“ Fair  lord,  whose  name  I know  not  — 
noble  it  is, 

I well  believe,  the  noblest  — will  you 
wear 

My  favor  at  this  tourney  ? ” “Nay,” 
said  he, 

“Fair  lady,  since  I never  yet  have 
worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know 
me,  know.” 

“Yea,  so,”  she  answer’d;  “then  in 
wearing  mine 

Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble 
lord, 

That  those  who  know  should  know 
you.”  And  he  turn’d 

Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his 
mind, 

And  found  it  true,  and  answer’d 
“ True,  my  child. 

Well,  I will  wear  it  : fetch  it  out  to 
me : 

What  is  it  ? ” and  she  told  him  “ A red 
sleeve 

Broider’d  with  pearls,”  and  brought 
it : then  he  bound 

Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a smile 

Saying,  “ I never  yet  have  done  sc 
much 


294 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


For  any  maiden  living,”  and  the  blood 

Sprang  to  her  face  and  fill’d  her  with 
delight ; 

But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when 
Lavaine 

Returning  brought  the  yet-unblazon’d 
shield, 

His  brother’s ; which  he  gave  to 
Lancelot, 

Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair 
Elaine : 

Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have 
my  shield 

In  keeping  till  I come.”  “ A grace  to 
me,” 

She  answer’d,  “ twice  to-day.  I am 
your  squire  ! ” 

Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing, 

“ Lily  maid, 

For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 

In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color 
back ; 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice  : now  get  you 
hence  to  bed : ” 

So  kiss’d  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his 
own  hand, 

And  thus  they  moved  away:  she 
stay’d  a minute, 

Then  made  a sudden  step  to  the  gate, 
and  there  — 

Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the 
serious  face 

Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother’s 
kiss  — 

Paused  by  the  gateway,  standing  near 
the  shield 

In  silence,  while  she  watch’d  their 
arms  far-off 

Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the 
downs. 

Then  to  her  tower  she  climb’d,  and 
took  the  shield, 

There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions 
past  away 

Far  o’er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 
downs, 

To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there 
lived  a knight 

Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty 
years 


A hermit,  who  had  pray'd,  labor’d  and 
pray’d, 

And  ever  laboring  had  scoop’d  him- 
self 

In  the  white  rock  a chapel  and  a hall 

On  massive  columns,  like  a shorecliff 
cave, 

And  cells  and  chambers  : all  were  fair 
and  dry ; 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows 
underneath 

Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky 
roofs ; 

And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen- 
trees 

And  poplars  made  a noise  of  falling 
showers. 

And  thither  wending  there  that  night 
they  bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from 
underground, 

And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro’ 
the  cave, 

They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and 
rode  away : 

Then  Lancelot  saying,  “Hear,  but 
hold  my  name 

Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake.” 

Abash’d  Lavaine,  whose  instant  rev- 
erence, 

Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 
own  praise, 

But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  “ Is  it 
indeed  ? ” 

And  after  muttering  “The  great 
Lancelot,” 

At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer’d, 
“ One, 

One  have  I seen  — that  other,  our 
liege  lord, 

The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain’s  King 
of  kings, 

Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously. 

He  will  be  there  — then  were  I stricken 
blind 

That  minute,  I might  say  that  I had 
seen.” 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they 
reach’d  the  lists 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


295 


By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his 
eyes 

Run  thro’  the  peopled  gallery  which 
half  round 

Lay  like  a rainbow  fall’n  upon  the 
grass, 

Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King, 
who  sat 

Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be 
known, 

Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 
clung, 

And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed 
in  gold, 

And  from  the  carven-work  behind 
him  crept 

Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to 
make 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest 
of  them 

Thro’  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innu- 
merable 

Fled  ever  thro’  the  woodwork,  till  they 
found 

The  new  design  wherein  they  lost 
themselves, 

Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the 
work  : 

And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o’er  him 
set,  * 

Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  name- 
less king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer’d  young 
Lavaine  and  said, 

“ Me  you  call  great : mine  is  the 

fr  firmer  seat, 

The  truer  lance : but  there  is  many  a 

i youth 

Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  I 

ii  am 

And  overcome  it;  and  in  me  there 
dwells 

No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off 
touch 

Of  greatness  to  know  well  I am  not 
great : 

There  is  the  man.”  And  Lavaine 
gaped  upon  him 

As  on  a thing  miraculous,  and  anon 

The  trumpets  blew;  and  then  did 
either  side, 


They  that  assail’d,  and  they  that  held 
the  lists, 

Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly 
move, 

Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so 
furiously 

Shock,  that  a man  far-off  might  well 
perceive, 

If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield, 

The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a low  thun- 
der of  arms. 

And  Lancelot  bode  a little,  till  he  saw 

Which  were  the  weaker ; then  he 
hurl’d  into  it 

Against  the  stronger:  little  need  to 
speak 

Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory ! King,  duke, 
earl, 

Count,  baron  — whom  he  smote,  he 
overthrew. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot’s 
kith  and  kin, 

Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that 
held  the  lists, 

Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a 
stranger  knight 

Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the 
deeds 

Of  Lancelot;  and  one  said  to  the 
other,  “ Lo ! 

What  is  he  ? I do  not  mean  the  force 
alone  — 

The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  ! 

Is  it  not  Lancelot  ? ” “ When  has 

Lancelot  worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 

Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know 
him,  know.” 

“ How  then  ? who  then  ? ” a fury 
seized  them  all, 

A fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 

Of  Lancelot,  and  a glory  one  witlz 
theirs. 

They  couch’d  their  spears  and  prick’d 
their  steeds,  and  thus, 

Their  plumes  driv’n  backward  by  the 
wind  they  made 

In  moving,  all  together  down  upon 
him 

Bare,  as  a wild  wave  in  the  wide 
North-sea, 


296 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit, 
bears,  with  all 

Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against 
the  skies, 

Down  on  a bark,  and  overbears  the 
bark, 

And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  over- 
bore 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a 
spear 

Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and 
a spear 

Prick’d  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and 
the  head 

Pierced  thro’  his  side,  and  there  snapt, 
and  remain’d. 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  wor- 
shipfully ; 

He  bore  a knight  of  old  repute  to  the 
earth, 

And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot 
where  he  lay. 

He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony, 
got, 

But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet 
endure, 

And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 

His  party,  — tho’  it  seem’d  half- 
miracle 

To  those  he  fought  with,  — drave  his 
kith  and  kin, 

And  all  the  Table  Bound  that  held 
the  lists, 

Back  to  the  barrier ; then  the  trum- 
pets blew 

Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore 
the  sleeve 

Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ; and  all  the 
knights, 

His  party,  cried  “ Advance  and  take 
thy  prize 

The  diamond ; ” but  he  answer’d, 
“ Diamond  me 

No  diamonds!  for  God’s  love,  a little 
air! 

Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is 
death ! 

Hence  will  I,  and  I charge  you,  follow 
me  not.” 

He  spoke,  and  vanish’d  suddenly 
from  the  field 


With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar 
grove. 

There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid, 
and  sat, 

Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  “Draw  the 
lance-head : ” 

“ Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,”  said 
Lavaine, 

“ I dread  me,  if  I draw  it,  you  will 
die.” 

But  he,  “ I die  already  with  it : draw  — ■ 

Draw,”  — and  Lavaine  drew,  and  Sir 
Lancelot  gave 

A marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly 
groan, 

And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and 
down  he  sank 

For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon’d 
away. 

Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare 
him  in, 

There  stanch’d  his  wound  ; and  there, 
in  daily  doubt 

Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a 
week 

Hid  from  the  wide  world’s  rumor  by 
the  grove 

Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling 
showers, 

And  ever-tremulous  asp£n-trees,  he 
lay. 


But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled 
the  lists, 

His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North 
and  West, 

Lords  of  waste  marches,  kkigs  of  des- 
olate isles, 

Came  round  their  great  Pendragon, 
saying  to  him, 

“ Lo,  Sire,  our  knight,  thro’  whom  we 
won  the  day, 

Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath 
left  his  prize 

Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is 
death.” 

“ Heaven  hinder,”  said  the  King,  “ that 
such  an  one, 

So  great  a knight  as  we  have  seen 
to-day  — 

He  seem’d  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


29  7 


Yea,  twenty  times  I thought  him 
Lancelot  — 

He  must  not  pass  uncared  for. 
Wherefore,  rise, 

O Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 
knight. 

Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he 
be  near. 

. I charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to 
horse. 

And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes 
not  one  of  you 

Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  i;s  rashly 
given  : 

His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.  We 
will  do  him 

No  customary  honor : since  the  knight 

Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the 
prize, 

Ourselves  will  send  it  after.  Kise  and 
take 

This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and 
return, 

And  bring  us  where  he  is,  and  how  he 
fares, 

And  cease  not  from  your  quest  until 
ye  find/’ 

So  saying,  from  the  carven  flower 
above, 

To  which  it  made  a restless  heart,  he 
took, 

And  gave,  the  diamond:  then  from 
where  he  sat 

At  Arthur’s  right,  with  smiling  face 
arose, 

With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart, 
a Prince 

In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his 
May, 

Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous, 
fair  and  strong, 

And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and 
Geraint 

And  Gareth,  a good  knight,  but 
therewithal 

Sir  Modred’s  brother,  and  the  child 

j cf  Lot, 

Nor  oiten  loyal  to  his  word,  and 
now 

Wroth  that  the  King's  command  to 
«ally  forth 


In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made 
him  leave 

The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights 
and  kings. 


So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and 
went; 

While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in 
mood, 

Past,  thinking  “Is  it  Lancelot  who 
hath  come 

Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for 
gain 

Of  glory,  and  hath  added  wound  to 
wound, 

And  ridd’n  away  to  die  ? ” So  fear’d 
the  King, 

And,  after  two  days’  tarriance  there, 
return’d. 

Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  em- 
bracing ask’d, 

“ Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ? ” “ Nav 

lord,”  she  said. 

“ And  where  is  Lancelot  ? ” Then  the 
Queen  amazed, 

“Was  he  not  with  you?  won  he  not 
your  prize  ? ” 

“ Nay,  but  one  like  him.”  “ Why  that 
like  was  he.” 

And  when  the  King  demanded  how 
she  knew,  • 

Said,  “ Lord,  no  sooner  had  ye  parted 
from  us, 

Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a common 
talk 

That  men  went  down  before  his  spear 
at  a touch, 

But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;  his 
great  name 

Conquer’d;  and  therefore  would  he 
hide  his  name 

From  all  men,  ev’n  the  King,  and  to 
this  end 

Had  made  the  pretext  of  a hindering 
wound, 

That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all, 
and  learn 

If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught 
decay’d ; 

And  added,  ‘Our  true  Arthur,  when 
he  learns, 


298 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 

Of  purer  glory.’  ” 

Then  replied  the  King : 

“ Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  > 
been, 

In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth, 

To  have  trusted  me  as  he  hath  trusted 
thee. 

Surely  his  King  and  most  familiar 
friend 

Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.  True, 
indeed, 

Albeit  I know  my  knights  fantastical, 

So  fine  a fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 

Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter  : 
now  remains 

But  little  cause  for  laughter  : his  own 
kin  — 

111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love 
him,  this ! — 

His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set 
upon  him ; 

So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from 
the  field: 

Yet  good  news  too:  for  goodly  hopes 
are  mine 

That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a lonely 
heart. 

He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his 
helm 

A sleeve  of  scarlet,  broider’d  with 
great  pearls, 

Some  gentle  maiden’s  gift.” 

“ Yea,  lord,”  she  said, 

“Thy  hopes  are  mine,”  and  saying 
that,  she  choked, 

And  sharply  turn’d  about  to  hide  her 
face, 

Past  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung 
herself 

Down  on  the  great  King’s  couch,  and 
writhed  upon  it, 

And  clench’d  her  fingers  till  they  bit 
the  palm, 

And  shriek’d  out  “Traitor”  to  the 
unhearing  wall, 

Then  flash’d  into  wild  tears,  and  rose 
again, 

And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud 
and  pale. 


Gawain  the  while  thro’  all  the  region 
round 

Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of 
the  quest, 

Touch’d  at  all  points,  except  the  pop- 
lar grove, 

And  came  at  last,  tho’  late,  to  Astolat 

Whom  glittering  in  enamell’d  arms 
the  maid 

Glanced  at,,  and  cried,  “What  news 
from  Camelot,  lord  ? 

What  of  the  knight  with  the  red 
sleeve  ? ” “ He  won.” 

“I  knew  it,”  she  said.  “But  parted 
from  the  jousts 

Hurt  in  the  side,”  whereat  she  caught 
her  breath ; 

Thro’  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp 
lance  go ; 

Thereon  she  smote  her  hand  : wellnigh 
she  swoon’d : 

And,  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at 
her,  came 

The  Lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom 
the  Prince 

Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what 
quest 

Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could 
not  find 

The  victor,  but  had  ridd’n  a random 
round 

To  seek  him,  and  had  wearied  of  the 
search. 

To  whom  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  “ Bide 
with  us, 

And  ride  no  more  at  random,  noble 
Prince ! 

Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left 
a shield; 

This  will  he  send  or  come  for : fur- 
thermore 

Our  son  is  with  him ; we  shall  hear 
anon, 

Needs  must  we  hear.”  To  this  the 
courteous  Prince 

Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 

Courtesy  with  a touch  of  traitor 
in  it,  » . 

And  stay’d ; and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair 
Elaine : 

Where  could  be  found  face  daintier? 
then  her  shape 


r.ANc&LOT  AND  ELAINE. 


299 


From  forehead  down  to  foot,  perfect 
— again 

From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely 
turn’d  : 

u Well  — if  I bide,  lo  ! this  wild  flower 
for  me  ! ” 

And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden 
yews, 

And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon 
her 

With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a 
height 

Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and 
songs, 

Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden 
eloquence 

And  amorous  adulation,  till  the 
maid 

^ebell’d  against  it,  saying  to  him, 
“ Prince, 

O loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 

Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he 
left, 

Whence  you  might  learn  his  name  ? 
Why  slight  your  King, 

knd  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on, 
and  prove 

No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 

Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  her  at, 
and  went 

To  all  the  winds  ? ” “ Nay,  by  mine 
head,”  said  he, 

“I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in 
heaven, 

O damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue 
eyes ; 

But  an  ye  will  it  let  me  see  the 
shield.” 

And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and 
Gawain  saw 

Sir  Lancelot’s  azure  lions,  crown’d 
with  gold, 

Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh, 
and  mock’d  : 

“ Right  was  the  King  ! our  Lancelot ! 
that  true  man  ! ” 

“ And  right  was  I,”  she  answer’d 
merrily,  “ I, 

Who  dream’d  my  knight  the  greatest 
knight  of  all.” 

* And  if  / dream’d,”  said  Gawain, 

“ that  you  love 


This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  ! lo, 
ye  know  it ! 

Speak  therefore : shall  I waste  myself 
in  vain  ? ” 

Full  simple  was  her  answer,  “What 
know  I ? 

My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellow- 
ship ; 

And  I,  when  often  they  have  talk’d 
of  love, 

Wish’d  it  had  been  my  mother,  for 
they  talk’d, 

Meseem’d,  of  what  they  knew  not;  so 
myself  — 

I know  not  if  I know  what  true  love  is, 

But  if  I know,  then,  if  I love  not  him, 

I know  there  is  none  other  I can 
love.” 

“Yea,  by  God’s  death,”  said  he,  “ye 
love  him  well, 

But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all 
others  know, 

And  whom  he  loves.”  “ So  be  it,” 
cried  Elaine, 

And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved 
away : 

But  he  pursued  her,  calling,  “ Stay  a 
little  ! 

One  golden  minute’s  grace ! he  wore 
your  sleeve : 

Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I may 
not  name  ? 

Must  our  true  man  change  like  a leaf 
at  last  ? 

Nay  — like  enow:  why  then,  far  be  it 
from  me 

To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his 
loves ! 

And,  damsel,  for  I deem  you  know 
full  well 

Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden, 
let  me  leave 

My  quest  with  you ; the  diamond  also ; 
here ! 

For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to 
give  it ; 

And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have 
it 

From  your  Own  hand ; and  whether 
he  love  or  not, 

A diamond  is  a diamond.  Fare  you 
well 


300 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


A thousand  times ! — a thousand  times 
farewell ! 

Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we 
two 

May  meet  at  court  hereafter : there, 
I think, 

So  ye  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the 
court, 

We  two  shall  know  each  other.” 

Then  he  gave, 

And  slightly  kiss’d  the  hand  to  which 
he  gave, 

The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the 
quest 

Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he 
went, 

A true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence  to  the  court  he  past ; there 
told  the  King 

What  the  King  knew,  “ Sir  Lancelot 
is  the  knight.” 

And  addecl,  “ Sire,  my  liege,  so  much 
I learnt ; 

But  fail’d  to  find  him,  tho’  I rode  all 
round 

The  region : but  I lighted  on  the  maid 

Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ; she  loves  him ; 
and  to  her, 

Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest 
law, 

I gave  the  diamond : she  will  render  it ; 

For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hid- 
ing-place.” 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frown’d, 
and  replied, 

“Too  courteous  truly  ! ye  shall  go  no 
more 

On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  for- 
get 

Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to 
kings.” 

He  spake  and  parted.  Wroth,  but 
all  in  awe, 

For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  with- 
out a word, 

Linger’d  that  other,  staring  after  him  ; 

Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  off,  and 
buzz’d  abroad 

About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her 
love. 


All  ears  were  prick’d  at  once,  al! 
tongues  were  loosed : 

“ The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lance- 
lot, 

Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Asto 
lat.” 

Some  read  the  King’s  face,  some  the 
Queen’s,  and  all 

Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be, 
but  most 

Predoom’d  her  as  unworthy.  One  old 
dame 

Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 
sharp  news. 

She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it 
before, 

But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have 
stoop’d  so  low, 

Marr’d  her  friend’s  aim  with  pale 
tranquillity. 

So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the 
court, 

Fire  in  dry  stubble  a nine-days’  won- 
der flared : 

Till  ev’n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice 
or  thrice 

Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the 
Queen, 

And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily 
maid 

Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen, 
who  sat 

With  lips  severely  placid,  felt  the 
knot 

Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet 
unseen 

Crush’d  the  wild  passion  out  against 
the  floor 

Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats 
became 

As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who 
pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 

Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever 
kept 

The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her 
heart, 

Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused 
alone, 

Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  hi*  gray 
face  and  said, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


301 


‘ Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the 
fault 

Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and 
now, 

Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my 
wits  ? ” 

“ Nay,”  said  he,  “ surely.”  “Where- 
fore, let  me  hence,” 

She  answer'd,  “ and  find  out  our  dear 
Lavaine.” 

“Ye  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear 
Lavaine  : 

Bide,”  answer’d  he : “ we  needs  must 
hear  anon 

Of  him,  and  of  that  other.”  “Ay,” 
she  said, 

'x  And  of  that  other,  for  I needs  must 
hence 

And  find  that  other,  wheresoe’er  he 
be, 

And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  dia- 
mond to  him, 

Lest  I be  found  as  faithless  in  the 
quest 

As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the 
quest  to  me. 

Sweet  father,  I behold  him  in  my 
dreams 

jaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
self, 

Death  - pale,  for  lack  of  gentle 
maiden’s  aid. 

The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the 
more  bound, 

Hy  father,  to  be  sweet  and  service- 
able 

Co  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye 
know 

Yhen  these  have  worn  their  tokens : 
let  me  hence 

pray  you.”  Then  her  father  nod- 
ding said, 

Ay,  ay,  the  diamond:  wit  ye  well, 
my  child, 

tight  fain  were  I to  learn  this  knight 
were  whole, 

teing  our  greatest:  yea,  and  you 
must  give  it  — 

md  sure  I think  this  fruit  is  hung 
too  high 

'or  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a 
queen’s  — 


Nay,  I mean  nothing:  so  then,  get  you 
gone, 

Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go.” 

Lightly,  her  suit  allow’d,  she  slipt 
away, 

And  while  she  made  her  ready  for 
her  ride, 

Her  father’s  latest  word  humm’d  in 
her  ear, 

“ Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go,” 

And  changed  itself  and  echo’d  in  her 
heart, 

“ Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die.” 

But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook 
it  off, 

As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes 
at  us ; 

And  in  her  heart  she  answer’d  it  and 
said, 

“ What  matter,  so  I help  him  back  to 
life  ? ” 

Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre 
for  guide 

Rode  o’er  the  long  backs  of  the  bush- 
less downs 

To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 

Came  on  her  brother  with  a happy 
face 

Making  a roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 

For  pleasure  all  about  a field  of 
flowers : 

Whom  when  she  saw,  “Lavaine,”  she 
cried,  “Lavaine, 

How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  ? ” 
He  amazed, 

“ Torre  and  Elaine  ! why  here  ? Sir 
Lancelot ! 

How  know  ye  my  lord’s  name  is  Lan- 
celot ? ” 

But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 
her  tale, 

Then  turn’d  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his 
moods 

Left  them,  and  under  the  strange- 
statued  gate, 

Where  Arthur’s  wars  were  render’d 
mystically, 

Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his 
kin, 

His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at 
Camelot ; 


302 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  her,  Lavaine  across  the  poplar 
grove 

Led  to  the  caves : there  first  she  saw 
the  casque 

Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall : her  scarlet 
sleeve, 

Tho’  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the 
pearls  away, 

Stream’d  from  it  still;  and  in  her 
heart  she  laugh’d, 

Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his 
helm, 

But  meant  once  more  perchance  to 
tourney  in  it. 

And  when  they  gain’d  the  cell  wherein 
he  slept, 

His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty 
hands 

Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a 
dream 

Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made 
them  move. 

Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek, 
unshorn, 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
self, 

Utter’d  a little  tender  dolorous  cry. 

The  sound  not  wonted  in  a place  so 
still 

Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he 
roll’d  his  eyes 

Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to 
him,  saying, 

“ Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by 
the  King  : ” 

His  eyes  glisten’d:  she  fancied  “Is  it 
for  me  ? ” 

And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 
the  tale 

Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 
the  quest 

Assign’d  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she 
knelt 

Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 

And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open 
hand. 

Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the 
child 

That  does  the  task  assign’d,  he  kiss’d 
her  face. 

At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the 
floor. 


“Alas,”  he  said,  “your  ride  hath 
wearied  you. 

Rest  must  you  have.”  “ No  rest  for 
me,”  she  said ; 

“ Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I am  at 
rest.” 

What  might  she  mean  by  that  1 his 
large  black  eyes, 

Yet  larger  thro’  his  leanness,  dwelt 
upon  her, 

Till  all  her  heart’s  sad  secret  blazed 
itself 

In  the  heart’s  colors  on  her  simpk 
face ; 

And  Lancelot  look’d  and  was  perplex 
in  mind, 

And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more 

But  did  not  love  the  color ; woman’s 
love, 

Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  sc 
turn’d 

Sighing,  and  feign’d  a sleep  until  h 
slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro 
the  fields, 

And  past  beneath  the  weirdly-sculp 
tured  gates 

Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin ; 

There  bode  the  night : but  woke  witl 
dawn,  and  past 

Down  thro’  the  dim  rich  city  to  th> 
the  fields, 

Thence  to  the  cave : so  day  by  da, 
she  past 

In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fr 

Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tende» 
him, 

And  likewise  many  a night : am 
Lancelot 

Would,  tho’  he  call’d  his  wound 
little  hurt 

Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whoh 
at  times 

Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agoiij 
seem 

Uncourteous,  even  he : but  the  mee 
maid 

Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  ti 
him 

Meeker  than  any  child  to  a roug 
nurse, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


303 


Milder  than  any  mother  to  a sick  child. 

And  never  woman  yet,  since  man’s 
first  fall, 

Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep 
love 

i Upbore  her;  till  the  hermit,  skill’d  in 
all 

The  simples  and  the  science  of  that 
time, 

Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved 
his  life. 

And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple 
blush, 

Would  call  her  friend  and  sister, 
sweet  Elaine, 

Would  listen  for  her  coming  and 
regret 

Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  ten- 
derly, 

And  loved  her  with  all  love  except 
the  love 

Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love 
their  best, 

Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 
death 

In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 

And  perad venture  had  he  seen  her 
first 

iiShe  might  have  made  this  and  that 
other  world 

Another  world  for  the  sick  man ; but 
now 

The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten’d 
him, 

[His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 

And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely 
true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sick- 
ness made 

?ull  many  a holy  vow  and  pure  re- 
solve. 

These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could 

'0  not  live : 

i’or  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 
again, 

hill  often  the  bright  image  of  one 
face, 

laking  a treacherous  quiet  in  his 
heart, 

Hspersed  his  resolution  like  a 
cloud. 


Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly 
grace 

Beam’d  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he 
answer’d  not, 

Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew 
right  well 

What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but 
what  this  meant 

She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm’d 
her  sight, 

And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the 
fields 

Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 

She  murmur’d,  “ Vain,  in  vain : it 
cannot  be. 

He  will  not  love  me  : how  then  ? must 
I die  ? ” 

Then  as  a little  helpless  innocent  bird, 

That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few 
notes, 

Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o’er  and 
o’er 

For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 

Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 

Went  half  the  night  repeating,  “Must 
I die  ? ” 

And  now  to  right  she  turn’d,  and  now 
to  left, 

And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in 
rest  ; 

And  “Him  or  death,”  she  mutter’d, 
“ death  or  him,” 

Again  and  like  a burthen,  “Him  or 
death.” 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot’s  deadly  hurt 
was  whole, 

To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three 

There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her 
sweet  self 

In  that  wherein  she  deem’d  she  look’d 
her  best, 

She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she 
thought 

“ If  I be  loved,  these  are  my  festal 
robes, 

If  not,  the  victim’s  flowers  before  he 
fall.” 

And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the 
maid 

That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift 
of  him 


304 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


For  her  own  self  or  hers ; “ and  do  not 
shun 

To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your 
true  heart ; 

Such  service  have  ye  done  me,  that  I 
make 

My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 
am  I 

In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I will  I 
can.” 

Then  like  a ghost  she  lifted  up  her 
face, 

But  like  a ghost  without  the  power  to 
speak. 

And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld 
her  wish, 

And  bode  among  them  yet  a little 
space 

Till  he  should  learn  it;  and  one  morn 
it  chanced 

He  found  her  in  among  the  garden 
yews, 

And  said,  “Delay  no  longer,  speak 
your  wish, 

Seeing  I go  to-day  ” : then  out  she 
brake : 

“ Going  1 and  we  shall  never  see  you 
more. 

And  I must  die  for  want  of  one  bold 
word.” 

“ Speak : that  I live  to  hear,”  he  said, 
“is  yours.” 

Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she 
spoke : 

“ I have  gone  mad.  I love  you : let 
me  die.” 

“ Ah,  sister,”  answer’d  Lancelot, 
“ what  is  this  ? ” 

And  innocently  extending  her  white 
arms, 

“Your  love,”  she  said,  “your  love  — 
to  be  your  wife.” 

And  Lancelot  answer’d,  “ Had  I chosen 
to  wed, 

I had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet 
Elaine : 

But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of 
mine.” 

“ No,  no,”  she  cried,  “ I care  not  to  be 
wife, 

But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your 
face, 


To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro’ 
the  world.” 

And  Lancelot  answer’d,  “Nay,  the 
world,  the  world, 

All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a stupid 
heart 

To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a 
tongue 

To  blare  its  own  interpretation  — nay, 

Full  ill  then  should  I quit  your 
brother’s  love, 

And  your  good  father’s  kindness.” 
And  she  said, 

“ Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your 
face  — 

Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are 
done.” 

“ Nay,  noble  maid,”  he  answer’d,  “ ten 
times  nay ! 

This  is  not  love  : but  love’s  first  flash 
in  youth, 

Most  common  : yea,  I know  it  of  mine 
own  self : 

And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your 
own  self 

Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower 
of  life 

To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice 
your  age : 

And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and 
sweet 

Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  woman 
hood, 

More  specially  should  your  good 
knight  be  poor, 

Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  ter 
ritory 

Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyon< 
the  seas, 

So  that  would  make  you  happy 
furthermore, 

Ev’n  to  the  death,  as  tho’  ye  were  mj 
blood, 

In  all  your  quarrels  will  I be  you 
knight. 

This  will  I do,  dear  damsel,  for  you 
sake, 

And  more  than  this  I cannot.” 

While  he  spok 

She  fieither  blush’d  nor  shook,  bu 
deathly-pale 


LAACVLOT  AAV  ALAIN  A. 


306 


Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then 
replied  : 

“Of  all  this  will  I nothing:  ” and  so 
fell. 

And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to 
her  tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro’  those 
black  walls  of  yew 

Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father  : 
“ Ay,  a flash, 

I fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom 
dead. 

Too  courteous  are  ye,  fair  Lord  Lance- 
lot. 

[ pray  you,  use  some  rough  dis- 
courtesy 

To  blunt  or  break  her  passion.” 


( Lancelot  said, 

‘That  were  against  me:  what  I can 
I will ; ” 

And  there  that  day  remain'd,  and 
toward  even 

sent  for  his  shield : full  meekly  rose 
the  maid, 

Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 
shield  ; 

Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon 
the  stones, 

.Jnclasping  flung  the  casement  back, 
and  look’d 

()own  on  his  helm,  from  which  her 
sleeve  had  gone. 

aid  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking 
sound ; 

rnd  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 

hat  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  look- 
ing at  him. 

nd  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 

f his  hand, 

or  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 

j his  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he 
used. 

- • 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden 
sat : 

is  very  shield  was  gone ; only  the 

| case, 

er  own  poor  work-  her  empty  labor 
left. 


But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 

form ’d 

And  grew  between  her  and  the  pic 
tured  wall. 

Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low 
tones, 

“ Have  comfort,”  whom  she  greeted 
quietly. 

Then  came  her  brethren  saying, 
“ Peace  to  thee, 

Sweet  sister,”  whom  she  answer’d  with 
ail  calm. 

But  when  they  left  her  to  herself 
again, 

Death,  like  a friend’s  voice  from  a dis- 
tant field 

Approaching  thro’  the  darkness, 
call’d ; the  owls 

Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she 
mixt 

Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted 

glooms 

Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  the 
wind. 


And  in  those  days  she  made  a little 
song, 

And  call’d  her  song  “ The  Song  of 
Love  and  Death,” 

And  sang  it : sweetly  could  she  make 
and  sing. 

“ Sweet  is  true  love  tho’  given  in 
vain,  in  vain  ; 

And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end 
to  pain  : 

I know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

“Love,  art  thou  sweet  ? then  bitter 
death  must  be  : 

Love,  thou  art  bitter;  sweet  is  death 
to  me. 

0 Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me 

die. 

“ Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made 
to  fade  away, 

Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us 
loveless  clay, 

1 know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 


•306 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


“ I fain  would  follow  love,  if  that 
could  be ; 

l needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls 
for  me ; 

Call  and  I follow,  I follow  ! let  me 
die.” 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her 
voice,  and  this, 

All  in  a fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 

That  shook  the  tower,  the  brothers 
heard,  and  thought 

With  shuddering,  “ Hark  the  Phan- 
tom of  the  house 

That  ever  shrieks  before  a death,” 
and  call'd 

The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and 
fear 

Ban  to  her,  and  lo ! the  blood-red  light 
of  dawn 

Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling,  “Let 
me  die  I” 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a word  we 
know, 

Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so 
well 

Becomes  a wonder,  and  we  know  not 
why, 

So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face,  and 
thought 

“ Is  this  Elaine  ? ” till  back  the  maiden 
fell, 

Then  gave  a languid  hand  to  each, 
and  lay, 

Speaking  a still  good-morrow  with  her 
eyes. 

At  last  she  said,  “ Sweet  brothers,  yes- 
ter-night 

I seem’d  a curious  little  maid  again, 

As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among 
the  woods, 

And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with 
the  flood 

Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman’s 
boat. 

Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the 
cape 

That  has  the  poplar  on  it : there  ye 
fixt 

Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the 
tide, 


And  yet  I cried  because  ye  would  not 
pass 

Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining 
flood 

Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the 
King. 

And  yet  ye  would  not : but  this  night 
I dream’d 

That  I was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 

And  then  I said,  ‘ Now  shall  I have 
my  will : ’ 

And  there  I woke,  but  still  the  wish 
remain’d. 

So  let  me  hence  that  I may  pass  at 
last 

Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the 
flood, 

Until  I find  the  palace  of  the  King. 

There  will  I enter  in  among  them  all 

And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mod 
at  me ; 

But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonde] 
at  me, 

And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  must 
at  me  ; 

Gawain,  who  bade  a thousand  fare 
wells  to  me, 

Lancelot,  who  coldly  went,  nor  bad< 
me  one  : 

And  there  the  King  will  know  me  an< 
my  love, 

And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pit; 
me, 

And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcom 
me, 

And  after  my  long  voyage  I sha) 
rest ! ” 

“ Peace,”  said  her  father,  “ O m 
child,  ye  seem 

Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  youi 
to  go 

So  far,  being  sick?  and  wherefor 
would  ye  look 

On  this  proud  fellow  again,  wh 
scorns  us  all  ? ” 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  t 
heave  and  move, 

And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  an 
say, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


307 


“I  never  loved  him:  an  I meet  with 
him, 

I care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 

Then  will  I strike  at  him  and  strike 
him  down. 

Give  me  good  fortune,  I will  strike 
him  dead, 

For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the 
house.” 

To  whom  the  gentle  sister  made 
reply, 

u Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor 
be  wroth, 

Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's 
fault 

Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to 
love 

Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the 
highest.” 

“ Highest  ? ” the  father  answer'd, 
echoing  “ highest  ? ” 

(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in 
her)  “nay, 

Daughter,  I know  not  what  you  call 
the  highest ; 

But  this  I know,  for  all  the  people 
know  it, 

He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open 
shame : 

A.nd  she  returns  his  love  in  open 
shame ; 

[f  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low  ? ” 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Asto- 
lat : 

‘ Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick 
am  I 

For  anger  : these  are  slanders  : never 
yet 

HVas  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 

He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made 
a foe. 

But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 

3ne  peerless,  without  stain  : so  let  me 
pass, 

Vly  father,  howsoe'er  I seem  to  you, 

^ot  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's 
best 

iind  greatest,  tho>  my  love  had  no 
return : 


Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to 
live, 

Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your 
own  desire ; 

For  if  I could  believe  the  things  you 
say 

I should  but  die  the  sooner;  wherefore 
cease, 

Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly 
man 

Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean, 
and  die.” 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come 
and  gone, 

She  with  a face,  bright  as  for  sin  for- 
given, 

Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she 
devised 

A letter,  word  for  word ; and  when  he 
ask'd 

“ Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear 
lord  ? 

Then  will  I bear  it  gladly ; ” she  re- 
plied, 

“ For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all 
the  world, 

But  I myself  must  bear  it.”  Then  he 
wrote 

The  letter  she  devised ; which  being 
writ 

And  folded,  “ O sweet  father,  tender 
and  true, 

Deny  me  not,”  she  said  — “ye  never 
yet 

Denied  my  fancies  — this,  however 
strange, 

My  latest : lay  the  letter  in  my 
hand 

A little  ere  I die,  and  close  the  hand 

Upon  it ; I shall  guard  it  even  in 
death. 

And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out 
my  heart, 

Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I 
died 

For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like 
the  Queen's 

For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the 
Queen 

In  all  I have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on 
it 


308 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE . 


And  let  there  be  prepared  a chariot- 
bier 

To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a barge 

Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 

I go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the 
Queen. 

There  surely  I shall  speak  for  mine 
own  self, 

And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me 
so  well. 

And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man 
alone 

Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row, 
and  he 

Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the 
doors.” 

She  ceased:  her  father  promised; 
whereupon 

She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem’d 
her  death 

Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the 
blood. 

But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on 
the  eleventh 

Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand, 

And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she 
died. 

So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from 
underground, 

Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with 
bent  brows 

Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 

Past  like  a shadow  thro’  the  field, 
that  shone 

Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon 
the  barge, 

Pall’d  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite, 
lay. 

There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the 
house, 

I oyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck, 

Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his 
face. 

So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot 
took 

And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in 
her  bed, 

Set  in  her  hand  a lily,  o’er  her  hung 


The  silken  case  with  braided  blazon 
ings, 

And  kiss’d  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying 
to  her 

“ Sister,  farewell  for  ever,”  and  again 

“ Farewell,  sweet  sister,”  parted  all  in 
tears. 

Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and 
the  dead, 

Oar’d  by  the  dumb,  went  upward  with 
the  flood  — 

In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 

The  letter  — all  her  bright  hair  stream- 
ing down — 

And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 

Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself 
in  white 

All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-fea- 
tured face 

Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as 
dead, 

But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho’  she 
smiled. 


That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace 
craved 

Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 

The  price  of  half  a realm,  his  costly 
gift, 

Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise 
and  blow, 

With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his 


own, 

The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds: 
for  he  saw 

One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the 
Queen 

Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen 
agreed 

With  such  and  so  unmoved  a majesty 

She  might  have  seem’d  her  statue,  but 
that  he, 

Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss’d 
her  feet 

For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a sidelong 
eye 

The  shadow  of  some  piece  of  pointed 
lace, 

In  the  Queen’s  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 
walls, 

And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly 
heart. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


309 


All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side, 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward 
the  stream, 

They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling 
utter’d,  “ Queen, 

Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I have  my 


joy, 

Take,  what  I had  not  won  except  for 
you, 

These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy, 
making  them 

An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on 
earth, 

Or  necklace  for  a neck  to  which  the 
swan’s 

Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet’s : these 
are  words ; 

Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I 
sin 

In  speaking,  yet  0 grant  my  worship 
of  it 

Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.  Such 
sin  in  words 

Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon : but, 
my  Queen, 

I hear  of  rumors  flying  thro’  your 
court. 

Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and 
wife, 

Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 

,To  make  up  that  defect : let  rumors 


be : 

When  did  not  rumors  fly  ? these,  as  I 
trust 

That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  noble- 
ness, 

I may  not  well  believe  that  you  be- 
lieve.” 


While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turn’d 
away,  the  Queen 

Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering 
vine 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast 

} them  off, 

Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood 
was  green ; 

Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold 
passive  hand 

Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the 
gems 

There  on  a table  near  her,  and  replied : 


“ It  may  be,  I am  quicker  of  belief 

Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake. 

Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and 
wife. 

This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe’er  of  ill, 

It  can  be  broken  easier.  I for  you 

This  many  a year  have  done  despite 
and  wrong 

To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of 
hearts 

I did  acknowledge  nobler.  What  art 

these  ? 

Diamonds  for  me!  they  had  been 
thrice  their  worth 

Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your 
own. 

To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all 
gifts 

Must  vary  as  the  giver’s.  Not  for 
me  ! 

For  her!  for  your  new  fancy.  Only 
this 

Grant  me,  I pray  you : have  your  joys 
apart. 

I doubt  not  that  however  changed, 
you  keep 

So  much  of  what  is  graceful:  and 
myself 

Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of 
courtesy 

In  which  as  Arthur’s  Queen  I move 
and  rule  : 

So  cannot  speak  my  mind.  An  end 
to  this ! 

A strange  one ! yet  I take  it  with 
Amen. 

So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her 
pearls ; 

Deck  her  with  these ; tell  her,  she 
shines  me  down : 

An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the 
Queen’s 

Is  haggard,  or  a necklace  for  a neck 

O as  much  fairer — as  a faith  once  fair 

Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  — 
hers  not  mine  — 

Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  him 
self, 

Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work 
my  will  — 

She  shall  not  have  them.” 


310 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Saying  which  she  seized, 

And,  thro’  the  casement  standing  wide 
for  heat, 

Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash’d, 
and  smote  the  stream. 

Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash’d, 
as  it  were, 

Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past 
away. 

Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half 
disdain 

At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 
ledge,  . 

Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right 
across 

Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past 
the  barge 

Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 

Lay  smiling,  like  a star  in  blackest 
night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not, 
burst  away 

To  weep  and  wail  in  secret ; and  the 
barge, 

On  to  the  palace-doorway  sliding, 
paused. 

There  two  stood  arm’d,  and  kept  the 
door ; to  whom, 

All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over 
tier, 

Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and 
eyes  that  ask’d 

•‘What  is  it?”  but  that  oarsman’s 
haggard  face, 

As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that 
men 

Shape  to  their  fancy’s  eye  from  broken 
rocks 

On  some  cliff-side,  appall’d  them,  and 
they  said, 

“He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  — 
and  she, 

Look  how  she  sleeps  — the  Fairy 
Queen,  so  fair ! 

Yea,  but  how  pale  ! what  are  they  ? 
flesh  and  blood  ? 

Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  Fairy- 
land ? 

For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot 
die, 

But  that  he  passes  into  Fairyland. 


While  thus  they  babbled  of  the 
King,  the  King 

Came  girt  with  knights  * then  turn’d 
the  tongueless  man 

From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye, 
and  rose 

And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the 
doors. 

So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 

And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the 
maid ; 

And  reverently  they  bore  her  into 
hall. 

Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  won- 
der’d at  her, 

And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused 
at  her, 

And  last  the  Queen  herself,  and  pitied 
her: 

But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her 
hand, 

Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ; 
this  was  all : 

“ Most  noble  lord,  Sir  Lancelot  of 
. the  Lake, 

I,  sometime  call’d  the  maid  of  Astolat, 

Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  fare- 
well, 

Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of 
you. 

I loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no 
return, 

And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been 
my  death. 

And  therefore  to  our  Lady  Guinevere, 

And  to  all  other  ladies,  I make  moan. 

Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 

Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too.  Sir  Lam 
celot, 

As  thou  art  a knight  peerless.” 

Thus  he  read ; 

And  ever  in  the  reading,  lords  and 
dames 

Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  whc 
read 

To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at 
times, 

So  touch’d  were  they,  half-thinking 
that  her  lips,.  .ju:' 


LANCELOT  AND  &LAINE. 


311 


Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved 
again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to 
them  all : 

u My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that 
hear, 

Know  that  for  this  most  gentle 
maiden’s  death 

Right  heavy  am  I ; for  good  she  was 
and  true, 

But  loved  me  with  a love  beyond  all 
love 

In  women,  whomsoever  I have  known. 

Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love 
again ; 

Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in 
youth. 

I swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that 
I gave 

No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a 
love  : 

To  this  I call  my  friends  in  testimony, 

Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who 
himself 

Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt, 
and  use, 

To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 

Against  my  nature : what  I could,  I 
did. 

I left  her  and  I bade  her  no  farewell ; 

Tho’,  had  I dreamt  the  damsel  would 
have  died, 

I might  have  put  my  wits  to  some 
rough  use, 

And  help’d  her  from  herself.” 

Then  said  the  Queen 

(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after 
storm) 

“Ye  might  at  least  have  done  her  so 
much  grace, 

Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help’d  her 
from  her  death.” 

j He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and 
hers  fell, 

i|He  adding, 

“ Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 

£Save  that  I wedded  her,  which  could 
not  be. 

Then  might  she  follow  me  thro’  the 
world,  she  ask’d* 


It  could  not  be.  I told  her  that  her 
love 

Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would 
darken  down 

To  rise  hereafter  in  a stiller  flame 

Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her  — 
then  would  I, 

More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded, 
poor, 

Estate  them  with  large  land  and  ter- 
ritory 

In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 
seas, 

To  keep  them  in  all  joyance : more 
than  this 

I could  not;  this  she  would  not,  and 
she  died.” 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer’d,  “O 
my  knight, 

It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my 
knight, 

And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table 
Round, 

To  see  that  she  be  buried  worship- 
fully.” 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in 
all  the  realm 

Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly 
went 

The  marshall’d  Order  of  their  Table 
Round, 

And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont, 
to  see, 

The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  un- 
known, 

Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obse- 
quies, 

And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a 
queen. 

And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her 
comely  head 

Low  in  the  dust  of  half -forgotten 
kings, 

Then  Arthur  spake  among  them, 
“ Let  her  tomb 

Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon, 

And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  he! 

feet 

Be  carver,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 


312 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous 
voyage 

For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon’d  on  her 
tomb 

In  letters  gold  and  azure ! ” which  was 
wrought 

Thereafter;  but  when  now  the  lords 
and  dames 

And  people,  from  the  high  door 
streaming,  brake 

Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the 
Queen, 

Who  mark'd  Sir  Lancelot  where  he 
moved  apart, 

Drew  near,  and  sigh’d  in  passing, 
“ Lancelot, 

Forgive  me ; mine  was  jealousy  in 
love.” 

He  answer’d  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

“ That  is  love’s  curse ; pass  on,  my 
Queen,  forgiven.” 

But  Arthur,  who  beheld  his  cloudy 
brows, 

Approach’d  him,  and  with  full  affec- 
tion said, 


“Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in 
whom  I have 

Most  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I 
know 

What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my 
side, 

And  many  a time  have  watch’d  thee 
at  the  tilt 

Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long  prac- 
tised knight, 

And  let  the  younger  and  unskill’d 
go  by 

To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his 
name, 

And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a 

man 

Made  to  be  loved ; but  now  I would 
to  God, 

Seeing  the  homeless  trouble  in  thine 
eyes, 

Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden, 
shaped,  it  seems, 

By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her 
face, 


If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the 
dead, 

Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair, 

Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a 
lonely  man 

Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 

Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and 
fame, 

My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of 
the  Lake.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  “Fair  she! 
was,  my  King, 

Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights: 
to  be. 

To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an 
eye, 

To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 
heart  — 

Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 

Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not 
be  bound.” 

“ Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freest,” 
said  the  King. 

“ Let  love  be  free ; free  love  is  for 
the  best : 

And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of 
death, 

What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a 
love 

Clothed  in  so  pure  a loveliness?  yet 
thee 

She  fail’d  to  bind,  tho’  being,  as  1 
think, 

Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  1 
know.” 

And  Lancelot  answer’d  nothing,  bui 
he  went, 

And  at  the  inrunning  of  a little  brool< 

Sat  by  the  river  in  a cove,  am 
watch’d 

The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his 

eyes 

And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  hei 
moving  down, 

Far-off,  a blot  upon  the  stream,  anc 
said 

Low  in  himself,  “ Ah  simple  heart  anc 
sweet. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


313 


Ye  loved  me.  damsel,  surely  with  a 
love 

Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen’s.  Pray 
for  thy  soul  ? 

Ay,  that  will  I.  Farewell  too  — now 
at  last  — 

Farewell,  fair  lily.  ‘Jealousy  in 
love  ? ’ 

Not  rather  dead  love’s  harsh  heir, 
jealous  pride  1 

Queen,  if  I grant  the  jealousy  as  of 
love, 

May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name 
and  fame 

Bpeak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a love  that 
wanes  ? 

Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name 
to  me  ? 

Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming 
a reproach, 

Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 

Caught  from  his  mother’s  arms  — 
the  wondrous  one 

Who  passes  thro'  the  vision  of  the 
night  — 

She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious 
hymns 

Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and 
morn 

She  kiss’d  me  saying,  ‘ Thou  art  fair, 
my  child, 

As  a king’s  son,’  and  often  in  her  arms 

She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky 
mere. 

Would  she  had  drown’d  me  in  it, 
where’er  it  be ! 

For  what  am  I ? what  profits  me  my 
name 

Of  greatest  knight  ? I fought  for  it, 
and  have  it : 

Pleasure  to  have  it,  none ; to  lose  it, 
pain ; 

Now  grown  a part  of  me : but  what 
use  in  itl 

To  make  men  worse  by  making  my 
sin  known  ? 

Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming 
great  ? 

i Alas  for  Arthur’s  greatest  knight,  a 
man 

Not  after  Arthur’s  heart ! I needs 
must  break 


These  bonds  that  so  defame  me : not 
without 

She  wills  it : would  I,  if  she  will’d  it  ? 
nay, 

Who  knows  ? but  if  I would  not,  then 
may  God, 

I pray  him,  send  a sudden  Angel  down 

To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me 
far, 

And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten 
mere, 

Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the 
hills.” 

So  groan’d  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorse- 
ful pain, 

Not  knowing  he  should  die  a holy 
man. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

From  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of 
prowess  done 

In  tournament  or  tilt,  Sir  Percivale, 

Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood 
call’d  The  Pure, 

Had  pass’d  into  the  silent  life  of 
prayer, 

Praise,  fast,  and  alms ; and  leaving 
for  the  cowl 

The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 

From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long 
after,  died. 

And  one,  a fellow-monk  among 
the  rest, 

Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond 
the  rest, 

And  honor’d  him,  and  wrought  into 
his  heart 

A way  by  love  that  waken’d  love 
within, 

To  answer  that  which  came : and  as 
they  sat 

Beneath  a world-old  yew-tree,  darken- 
ing half 

The  cloisters,  on  a gustful  April  morn 

That  puff’d  the  swaying  branches  into 
smoke 

Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when 
he  died, 


314 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


The  monk  Ambrosius  question’d 
Percivale : 

“ O brother,  I have  seen  this  yew- 
tree  smoke, 

Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a hun- 
dred years : 

For  never  have  I known  the  world 
without, 

Nor  ever  stray’d  beyond  the  pale  : but 
thee, 

When  first  thou  earnest  — such  a 
courtesy 

Spake  thro’  the  limbs  and  in  the 
voice  — 

I knew 

For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur’s 
hall; 

For  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to 
coins, 

Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one 
of  you 

Stamp’d, with  the  image  of  the  King; 
and  now 

Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the 
Table  Round, 

My  brother  ? was  it  earthly  passion 
crost  ? ” 

“Nay,”  said  the  knight;  “for  no 
such  passion  mine 

But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy 
Grail 

Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rival- 
ries, 

And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and 
sparkle  out 

Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women 
watch 

Who  wins,  who  falls;  and  waste  the 
spiritual  strength 

Within  us,  better  offer’d  up  to 
Heaven.” 

To  whom  the  monk:  “The  Holy 
Grail ! — I trust 

We  are  green  in  Heaven’s  eyes;  but 
here  too  much 

We  moulder  — as  to  things  without  I 
mean  — 

Vet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a guest 
of  ours. 


| Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory, 

But  spake  with  such  a sadness  and  so 
low 

We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said. 
What  is  it  ? 

The  phantom  of  a cup  that  comes 
and  goes  ? ” 

“ Nay,  monk  ! what  phantom  ? ” 
answer’d  Percivale. 

“ The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which 
our  Lord 

Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his 
own. 

This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aro- 
mat  — 

After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the 
dead 

Went  wandering  o’er  Moriah — the 
good  saint 

Arimathaean  Joseph,  journeying 
brought 

To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter 
thorn 

Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of 
our  Lord. 

And  there  awhile  it  bode ; and  if  a 
man 

Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd 
at  once, 

By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.  But  then  the 
times 

Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 

Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and 
disappear’d.” 

To  whom  the  monk : “ From  our 
old  books  I know 

That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury, 

And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arvi- 
ragus, 

Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 
build ; 

And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from 
the  marsh 

A little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 

For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours, 
but  seem 

Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I have  read. 

But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to- 
day ? ” 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


315 


“A  woman/’  answer’d  Percivale, 
“ a nun, 

And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from 
me 

Than  sister ; and  if  ever  holy  maid 

With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the 
stone, 

A holy  maid ; tho’  never  maiden 
glow’d, 

But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maiden- 
hood, 

With  such  a fervent  flame  of  human 
love, 

Which  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced 
and  shot 

Only  to  holy  things ; to  prayer  and 
praise 

She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms. 
And  yet, 

Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the 
Court, 

Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table 
Round, 

And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulter- 
ous race, 

Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 

Beat,  and  she  pray’d  and  fasted  all 
the  more. 

“ And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  Sins, 
or  what 

Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for 
sin, 

A man  wellnigh  a hundred  winters  old, 

Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 

A legend  handed  down  thro’  five  or  six. 

And  eacli  of  these  a hundred  winters 
old, 

From  our  Lord’s  time.  And  when 
King  Arthur  made 

His  Table  Round,  and  all  men’s  hearts 
became 

Clean  for  a season,  surely  he  had 
thought 

That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come 
again ; 

But  sin  broke  out.  Ah,  Christ,  that  it 
would  come, 

And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wicked- 
ness ! 

‘0  Father ! ’ ask’d  the  maiden,  ‘ might 
it  come 


To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  ? ’ ‘ Nay,’ 
said  he, 

* I know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as 
snow/ 

And  so  she  pray’d  and  fasted,  till  the 
sun 

Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro’  her. 
and  I thought 

She  might  have  risen  and  floated  wher 
I saw  her. 

“For  on  a day  she  sent  to  speak 
with  me. 

And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold 
her  eyes 

Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beauti- 
ful, 

Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  won- 
derful, 

Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 

And  ‘O  my  brother  Percivale/  she 
said, 

‘ Sweet  brother,  I have  seen  the  Holy 
Grail : 

For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I heard 
a sound 

As  of  a silver  horn  from  o’er  the  hills 

Blown,  and  I thought,  “ It  is  not 
Arthur’s  use 

To  hunt  by  moonlight ; ” and  the  slen- 
der sound 

As  from  a distance  beyond  distance 
grew 

Coming  upon  me  — 0 never  harp  nor 
horn, 

Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or 
touch  with  hand, 

Was  like  that  music  as  it  came ; and 
then 

Stream’d  thro’  my  cell  a cold  and 
silver  beam, 

And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the 
Holy  Grail, 

Rose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if 
alive, 

Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were 
dyed 

With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall; 

And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the 
Grail 

Past,  and  the  beam  decay’d,  and  from 
the  walls 


316 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the 
night. 

So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 

Among  us,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and 
pray, 

And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast 
and  pray, 

That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be 
seen 

By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world 
be  heal’d.’ 

“ Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I spake 
of  this 

To  all  men  ; and  myself  fasted  and 
pray’d 

Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a 
week 

Fasted  and  pray’d  even  to  the  utter- 
most, 

Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would 
be. 

“ And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever 
moved 

Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 

‘God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art 
beautiful/ 

Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb’d  him 
knight;  and  none, 

In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a 
knight 

Till  Galahad  ; and  this  Galahad,  when 
he  heard 

My  sister’s  vision,  fill’d  me  with  amaze; 

His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 
seem’d 

Hers,  and  himself  her  brother  more 
than  I. 

“ Sister  or  brother  none  had  he ; but 
some 

Call’d  him  a son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 
said 

Begotten  by  enchantment — chatterers 
they, 

Life  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and 
down, 

That  gape  for  flies  — we  know  not 
whence  they  come ; 

For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly 
lewd? 


“ But  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden, 
shore  away 

Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that 
wealth  of  hair 

Which  made  a silken  mat-work  for 
her  feet ; 

And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and 
long 

A strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with 
silver  thread 

And  crimson  in  the  belt  a strange 
device, 

A crimson  grail  within  a silver  beam  ; 

And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and 
bound  it  on  him, 

Saying,  ‘ My  knight,  my  love,  my 
knight  of  heaven, 

O thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one 
with  mine, 

I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind 
my  belt. 

Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I 
have  seen, 

And  break  thro’  all,  till  one  will  crown 
thee  king 

Far  in  the  spiritual  city : ’ and  as  she 
spake 

She  sent  her  deathless  passion  in  her 
eyes 

Thro’  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and 
laid  her  mind 

On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

“ Then  came  a year  of  miracle : 0 
brother, 

In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a vacant 
chair, 

Fashion’d  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away, 

And  carven  with  strange  figures;  and 
in  and  out 

The  figures,  like  a serpent,  ran  a scroll 

Of  letters  in  a tongue  no  man  could 
read. 

And  Merlin  call’d  it  ‘The  Siege  peril- 
ous.’ 

Perilous  for  good  and  ill ; ‘ lor  there,’ 
he  said, 

‘ No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 
himself : ’ 

And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat  j 

In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ; but  I 
he. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


317 


Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin’s 
doom, 

Cried,  ‘ If  I lose  myself,  I save  my- 
self ! 1 

“Then  on  a summer  night  it  came 
to  pass, 

While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the 
hall, 

That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Mer- 
lin’s chair. 

“ And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat, 
we  heard 

A cracking  and  a riving  of  the  roofs, 

And  rending,  and  a blast,  and  over- 
head 

Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a cry. 

And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the 
hall 

A beam  of  light  seven  times  more 
clear  than  day : 

And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the 
Holy  Grail 

All  over  cover’d  with  a luminous  cloud, 

And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and 
it  past. 

But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow’s 
face 

As  in  a glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose, 

And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb 
men 

Stood,  till  I found  a voice  and  sware 
a vow. 


“I  sware  a vow  before  them  all, 
that  I, 

Because  I had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would 
ride 

A twelvemonth  and  a day  in  quest  of 
it, 

1 Until  I found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 

! My  sister  saw  it ; and  Galahad  sware 
the  vow, 

And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot’s 
cousin,  sware, 

And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 
the  knights, 

And  Gawain  sware,  and  louder  than 
the  rest.” 

I 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius, 
asking  him, 


“ What  said  the  King?  Did  Arthu 
take  the  vow  ? ” 

“ Nay,  for  my  lord,”  said  Percivale, 
“ the  King, 

Was  not  in  hall : for  early  that  same 
day, 

Scaped  thro’  a cavern  from  a bandit 
hold, 

An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the 
hall 

Crying  on  help : for  all  her  shining 
hair 

Was  smear’d  with  earth,  and  either 
milky  arm 

Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and 
all  she  wore 

Torn  as  a sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is 
torn 

In  tempest:  so  the  King  arose  and 
went 

To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those 
wild  bees 

That  made  such  honey  in  his  realm. 
Howbeit 

Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw, 

Returning  o’er  the  plain  that  then 

began 

To  darken  under  Camelot ; whence  the 
King 

Look’d  up,  calling  aloud,  ‘ Lo,  there! 
the  roofs 

Of  our  great  hall  are  roll’d  in  thunder^ 
.smoke ! 

Pray  Heaven,  they  be  not  smitten  by 
the  bolt.’ 

For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of 
ours, 

As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his 
knights 

Feasted,  and  as  the  stateliest  under 
heaven. 


“O  brother,  had  you  known  our 
mighty  hall, 

Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long 
ago! 

For  ail  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 

And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by 
roof, 

Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire, 


318 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rush- 
ing brook, 

Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin 
built. 

And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set 
betwixt 

With  many  a mystic  symbol,  gird  the 
hall : 

And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying 
men, 

And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying 
beasts, 

And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect 
men, 

And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  grow- 
ing wings, 

And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 

Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a 
crown, 

And  peak’d  wings  pointed  to  the 
Northern  Star. 

And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and 
the  crown 

And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 
and  flame 

At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far 
fields, 

Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen 
hordes, 

Behold  it,  crying,  ‘We  have  still  a 
King.’ 

“ And,  brother,  had  you  known  our 
hall  within, 

Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all 
the  lands ! 

Where  twelve  great  windows  blazon 
Arthur’s  wars, 

And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the 
board 

Streams  thro’ the  twelve  great  battles 
of  our  King. 

Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern 
end, 

Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of 
mount  and  mere, 

Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand  Excali- 
bur. 

And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter 
to  it, 

And  blank  : and  who  shall  blazon  it  ? 
when  and  how  ? — 


Q there,  perchance,  when  all  our  wars 
are  done, 

The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast 
away. 

“ So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode 
the  King, 

In  horror  lest  the  work  by  Merlin 
wrought, 

Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  van- 
ish, wrapt 

In  unremorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 

And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I glanced,  and 
saw 

The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all : 

And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the 
hold,  their  arms 

Hack’d,  and  their  foreheads  grimed 
with  smoke,  and  sear’d, 

Follow’d,  and  in  among  bright  faces, 
ours, 

Full  of  the  vision,  prest : and  then  the 
King 

Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  ‘Perci- 
vale,’ 

(Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult  — 
some 

Vowing,  and  some  protesting),  ‘ what 
is  this  ? ’ 

“ 0 brother,  when  I told  him  what 
had  chanced, 

My  sister’s  vision,  and  the  rest,  his 
face 

Darken’d,  as  I have  seen  it  more  than 
once, 

When  some  brave  deed  seem’d  to  be 
done  in  vain, 

Darken ; and  ‘ Woe  is  me,  my  knights/ 
he  cried, 

‘ Had  I been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn 
the  vow.’ 

Bold  was  mine  answer,  ‘ Had  thyself 
been  here, 

My  King,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn.’ 

‘ Yea,  yea,’  said  he, 

‘ Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen 
' the  Grail  ? ’ 

‘“  Nay,  lord,  I heard  the  soun4, 1 
saw  the  light, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


319 


But  since  I did  not  see  the  Holy 
Thing, 

[ sware  a vow  to  follow  it  till  I saw.’ 

“ Then  when  he  ask’d  us,  knight  by 
knight,  if  any 

Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as 
one : 

Nay,  lord,  and  therefore  have  we 
sworn  our  vows/ 

“ ‘ Lo  now,’  said  Arthur,  ‘ have  ye 
seen  a cloud  ? 

What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to 
see  ? ’ 

“ Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and 
in  a voice 

Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur, 
call’d, 

But  I,  Sir  Arthur,  saw  the  Holy 
Grail, 

[ saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a cry  ■ — 

‘ 0 Galahad,  and  O Galahad,  follow 
me.”  ’ 

“ * Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad/  said  the 
King,  ‘ for  such 

As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for 
these. 

Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a 
sign  — 

Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than 
she  — 

A.  sign  to  maim  this  Order  which  I 
made. 

But  ye,  that  follow  but  the  leader’s 
bell  ’ 

'Brother,  the  King  was  hard  upon  his 
knights) 

Taliessin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song, 

And  one  hath  sung  and  all  the  dumb 
will  sing. 

Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  over- 
borne 

?ive  knights  at  once,  and  every 
younger  knight, 

Jnproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 

Till  overborne  by  one,  he  learns  — and 
ye, 

Yhat  are  ye  ? Galahads  ? — no,  nor 
Percivales  * 


(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 
me  close 

After  Sir  Galahad);  ‘nay,’  said  he, 

‘ but  men 

With  strength  and  will  to  right  the 
wrong’d,  of  power 

To  lay  the  sudden  heads  of  violence 
flat, 

Knights  that  in  twelve  great  battles 
splash’d  and  dyed 

The  strong  White  Horse  in  his  own 
heathen  blood  — 

But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind 
will  see. 

Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,  being 
made : 

Yet  — for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my 
realm 

Pass  thro’  this  hall  — how  often,  0 my 
knights, 

Your  places  being  vacant  at  my 
side, 

This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come 
and  go 

Unchallenged,  while  ye  follow  wan- 
dering fires 

Lost  in  the  quagmire ! Many  of  you, 
yea  most, 

Return  no  more  : ye  think  I show  my- 
self 

Too  dark  a prophet:  come  now,  let 
us  meet 

The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one 
full  field 

Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more 
the  King, 

Before  ye  leave  him  for  this  Quest, 
may  count 

The  yet-unbroken  strength  of  all  his 
knights, 

Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he 
made/ 

“ So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from 
under  ground, 

All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur 

closed 

And  clash’d  in  such  a tourney  and  so 
full, 

So  many  lances  broken  — never  yet 

Had  Camelot  seen  the  like,  since 
Arthur  came; 


320 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


And  I myself  and  Galahad,  for  a 
strength 

Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 

So  many  knights  that  all  the  people 
cried, 

And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their 
heat, 

Shouting,  ‘ Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Per- 
civale ! ’ 

“ But  when  the  next  day  brake 
from  under  ground  — 

0 brother,  had  you  known  our  Came- 
lot, 

Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so 
old 

The  King  himself  had  fears  that  it 
would  fall, 

So  strange,  and  rich,  and  dim ; for 
where  the  roofs 

Totter’d  toward  each  other  in  the 
sky, 

Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of 
those 

Who  watch’d  us  pass  ; and  lower,  and 
where  the  long 

Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  weigh’d  the 
necks 

Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls, 

Thicker  than  drops  from  thunder, 
showers  of  flowers 

Fell  as  we  past;  and  men  and  boys 
astride 

On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griffin,  swan, 

At  all  the  corners,  named  us  each  by 
name, 

Calling  ‘ God  speed  ! ’ but  in  the  ways 
below 

The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich 
and  poor 

Wept,  and  the  King  himself  could 
hardly  speak 

For  grief,  and  all  in  middle  street  the 
Queen, 

Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail’d  and 
shriek’d  aloud, 

‘This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our 
sins.’ 

So  to  the  Gate  of  the  three  Queens  we 
came, 

Where  Arthur’s  wars  are  render’d 
mystically, 


And  thence  departed  every  one  his 
way. 

“ And  I was  lifted  up  in  heart,  and 
thought 

Of  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the 
lists, 

How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down 
the  knights, 

So  many  and  famous  names;  and 
never  yet 

Had  heaven  appear’d  so  blue,  nor 
earth  so  green, 

For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  1 
knew 

That  I should  light  upon  the  Holy 
Grail. 

“ Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of 
our  King, 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires, 

Came  like  a driving  gloom  across  my 
mind. 

Then  every  evil  word  I had  spoken 
once, 

And  every  evil  thought  I had  thought 
of  old, 

And  every  evil  deed  I ever  did, 

Awoke  and  cried,  ‘ This  Quest  is  not 
for  thee.’ 

And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I found  my- 
self 

Alone,  and  in  a land  of  sand  and 
thorns, 

And  I was  thirsty  even  unto  death ; 

And  I,  too,  cried,  ‘ This  Quest  is  not 
for  thee.’ 

“ And  on  I rode,  and  when  I thought 
my  thirst 

Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and 
then  a brook, 

With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisp- 
ing white 

Play’d  ever  back  upon  the  sloping 
wave, 

And  took  both  ear  and  eye ; and  o’er 
the  brook 

Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the 
brook 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


321 


Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns.  ‘ 1 will  rest 
here/ 

I said,  ‘ 1 am  not  worthy  of  the  Quest ; ’ 

But  even  while  1 drank  the  brook,  and 
ate 

The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at 
once 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I was  left  alone. 

And  thirsting,  in  a land  of  sand  and 
thorns. 

“And  then  behold  a woman  at  a 
door 

Spinning ; and  fair  the  house  whereby 
she  sat, 

And  kind  the  woman’s  eyes  and  inno- 
cent, 

And  all  her  bearing  gracious  ; and  she 
rose 

Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who 
should  say, 

‘Rest  here;’  but  when  I touch’d  her, 
lo ! she,  too, 

Fell  into  dust  and  nothing,  and  the 
house 

Became  no  better  than  a broken  shed. 

And  in  it  a dead  babe;  and  also  this 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I was  left  alone. 

“And  on  I rode,  and  greater  was 
my  thirst. 

Then  flash’d  a yellow  gleam  across 
the  world, 

And  where  it  smote  the  plowshare  in 
the  field, 

The  plowman  left  his  plowing,  and 
fell  down 

Before  it;  where  it  glitter’d  on  her 
pail, 

The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and 
■ fell  down 

Before  it,  and  I knew  not  why,  but 
thought 

‘ The  sun  is  rising/  tho’  the  sun  had 
risen. 

Then  was  I ware  of  one  that  on  me 
£ moved 

In  golden  armor  with  a crown  of  gold 

About  a casque  all  jewels;  and  his 
horse 

In  golden  armor  jewell’d  everywhere  : 


And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing 
me  blind ; 

And  seem’d  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the 
world, 

Being  so  huge.  But  when  I thought 
he  meant 

To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo ! he, 
too, 

Open’d  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he 
came, 

And  up  I went  and  touch’d  him,  and 
he,  too, 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I was  left  alone 

And  wearying  in  a land  of  sand  and 
thorns. 

“ And  I rode  on  and  found  a mighty 
hill, 

And  on  the  top,  a city  wall’d : the 
spires 

Prick’d  with  incredible  pinnacles  into 
heaven. 

And  by  the  gateway  stirr’d  a crowd ; 
and  these 

Cried  to  me  climbing,  ‘ Welcome,  Per- 
civale ! 

Thou  mightiest  and  thou  purest 
among  men ! ’ 

And  glad  was  I and  clomb,  but  found 
at  top 

No  man,  nor  any  voice.  And  thence 
I past 

Far  thro’  a ruinous  city,  and  I saw 

That  man  had  once  dwelt  there ; but 
there  I found 

Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 

‘ Where  is  that  goodly  company,’  said  I, 

‘That  so  cried  out  upon  me  ? ’ and  he 
had 

Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet 
gasp’d, 

‘ Whence  and  what  art  thou  ? ’ and 
even  as  he  spoke 

Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear’d,  and  I 

Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried 
in  grief, 

‘ Lo,  if  1 find  the  Holy  Grail  itself 

And  touch  it,  it  will  crumble  into 
dust.’ 

“And  thence  I dropt  into  a lowlj 
vale. 


322 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where 
the  vale 

Was  lowest,  found  a chapel,  and 
thereby 

A holy  hermit  in  a hermitage, 

To  whom  I told  my  phantoms,  and  he 
said : 

“ * O son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility, 
The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all ; 
For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 
Himself 

Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
“ Take  thou  my  robe,”  she  said,  “ for 
all  is  thine,” 

And  all  her  form  shone  forth  with 
sudden  light 

So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and 
she 

Follow'd  Him  down,  and  like  a flying 
star 

Led  on  the  gray-hair’d  wisdom  of  the 
east ; 

But  her  thou  hast  not  known : for 
what  is  this 

Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and 
thy  sins  ? 

Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save 
thyself 

As  Galahad/  When  the  hermit  made 
an  end, 

In  silver  armor  suddenly  Galahad 
shone 

Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter’d,  and  we  knelt 
in  prayer. 

And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burn- 
ing thirst, 

And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I saw 
The  holy  elements  alone ; but  he, 

4 Saw  ye  no  more  ? I,  Galahad,  saw 
the  Grail, 

The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the 
shrine : 

I saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a child 
That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and 
went ; 

And  hither  am  I come  ; and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first 
to  see, 

\ This  Holy  Thing,  fail’d  from  my  side, 
nor  come 


Cover’d,  but  moving  with  me  night 
and  day, 

Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 

Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  black- 
en’d marsh 

Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain 
top 

Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere 
below 

Blood-red.  And  in  the  strength  of 
this  I rode, 

Shattering  all  evil  customs  every- 
where, 

And  past  thro’  Pagan  realms,  and 
made  them  mine, 

And  clash’d  with  Pagan  hordes,  and 
bore  them  down, 

And  broke  thro’  all,  and  in  the  strength 
of  this 

Come  victor.  But  my  time  is  hard  at 
hand, 

And  hence  I go ; and  one  will  crown 
me  king 

Far  in  the  spiritual  city;  and  come 
thou,  too, 

For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I 
go.’ 

“ While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye, 
dwelling  on  mine, 

Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I 
grew 

One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  be- 
lieved. 

Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane, 
we  went. 

“There  rose  a hill  that  none  but 
man  could  climb, 

Scarr’d  with  a hundred  wintry  water- 
courses — 

Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain’d 
it,  storm 

Round  us  and  death;  for  every  mo- 
ment glanced 

His  silver  arms  and  gloom’d  : so  quick 
and  thick 

The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left 
and  right 

Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about 
us,  dead, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


323 


Yea,  rotten  with  a hundred  years  of 
death, 

Sprang  into  fire  * and  at  the  base  we 
found 

On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 

A great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil 
smell. 

Tart  black,  part  whiten'd  with  th^ 
bones  of  men, 

Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient 
king 

Had  built  a way,  where,  link’d  with 
many  a bridge, 

A thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great 
Sea. 

And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge 
by  bridge, 

And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he 
crost 

Sprang  into  fire  and  vanish’d,  tho’  I 
yearn’d 

To  follow ; and  thrice  above  him  all 
the  heavens 

Open’d  and  blazed  with  thunder  such 
as  seem’d 

Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God : and 
first 

At  once  I saw  him  far  on  the  great 
Sea, 

In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear  ; 

And  o’er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel 
hung 

Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a luminous 
cloud. 

And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the 
boat, 

If  boat  it  were  — I saw  not  whence  it 
came. 

And  when  the  heavens  open’d  and 
blazed  again 

Roaring,  I saw  him  like  a silver  star  — 

And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the 
boat 

Become  a living  creature  clad  with 
wings  1 

And  o’er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel 
hung 

Redder  than  any  rose,  a joy  to  me, 

For  now  I knew  the  veil  had  been 
withdrawn. 

Then  in  a moment  when  they  blazed 
again 


Opening,  I saw  the  least  of  little  stars 

Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight 
beyond  the  star 

1 I saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her 
spires 

And  gateways  in  a glory  like  one 
pearl  — 

No  larger,  tho’  the  goal  of  all  the 
saints  — 

Strike  from  the  sea;  and  from  the 
star  there  shot 

A rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and 
there 

Dwelt,  and  I know  it  was  the  Holy 
Grail, 

Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again 
shall  see. 

Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drown- 
ing the  deep. 

And  how  my  feet  recrost  the  death- 
ful ridge 

No  memory  in  me  lives ; but  that  I 
touch’d 

The  cliapel-doors  at  dawn  I know; 
and  thence 

Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy 
man, 

Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more, 
return’d 

To  whence  I came,  the  gate  of  Arthur’s 
wars.” 

“ 0 brother,”  ask’d  Ambrosius,  — ~ 
“for  in  sooth 

These  ancient  books  — and  they  would 
win  thee  — teem, 

Only  I find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 

With  miracles  and  marvels  like  to 
these, 

Not  all  unlike ; which  oftentime  I read, 

Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with 
ease, 

Till  my  head  swims ; and  then  go  forth 
and  pass 

Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so 
close, 

And  almost  plaster’d  like  a martin’s 
nest 

To  these  old  walls  — and  mingle  with 
our  folk ; 

And  knowing  every  honest  face  of 
theirs 


324 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


As  well  as  ever  shepherd  knew  his 
sheep. 

And  every  homely  secret  in  their 
hearts. 

Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old 
wives, 

And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings, 
lyings-in, 

And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the 
place, 

That  have  no  meaning  half  a league 
away  : 

Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when 
they  rise, 

Chafferings  and  chatterings  at  the 
market-cross, 

Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 
of  mine, 

Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their 
eggs  — 

O brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad, 

Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in 
your  quest, 

No  man,  no  woman  ? ” 

Then  Sir  Percivale : 

“ All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a 
vow, 

And  women  were  as  phantoms.  O, 
my  brother. 

Why  wilt  thou  shame  me  to  confess 
to  thee 

How  far  I falter’d  from  my  quest  and 
vow  ? 

For  after  I had  lain  so  many  nights, 

A bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and 
snake, 

In  grass  and  burdock,  I was  changed 
to  wan 

And  meagre,  and  the  vision  had  not 
come ; 

And  then  I chanced  upon  a goodly 
town 

With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle 
of  it; 

Thither  I made,  and  there  was  I dis- 
arm’d 

By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower  : 

But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  be- 
hold, 

The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the 
one, 


Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had 
ever 

Made  my  heart  leap ; for  when  I 
moved  of  old 

A slender  page  about  her  father’s  hall, 

And  she  a slender  maiden,  all  my 
heart 

Went  after  her  with  ^longing : yet  we 
twain 

Had  never  kiss’d  a kiss,  or  vow’d  a 
vow. 

And  now  I came  upon  her  once  again. 

And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was 
dead, 

And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state 
were  hers. 

And  while  I tarried,  every  day  she 
set 

A banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 

By  me;  for  all  her  longing  and  her 
will 

Was  toward  me  as  of  old;  till  one 
fair  morn, 

I walking  to  and  fro  beside  a stream 

That  flash’d  across  her  orchard  under- 
neath 

Her  castle-walls,  she  stole  upon  my 
walk, 

And  calling  me  the  greatest  of  all 
knights, 

Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss’d  me  the 
first  time, 

And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth 
to  me. 

Then  I remember’d  Arthur’s  warning 
word, 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wan- 
dering fires, 

And  the  Quest  faded  in  my  heart. 
Anon, 

The  heads  af  all  her  people  drew  to 
me, 

With  supplication  both  of  knees  and 
tongue : 

‘We  have  heard  of  thee:  thou  art 
our  greatest  knight, 

Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe: 

Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us, 

And  thou  shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our 
land.’ 

O me,  my  brother ! but  one  night  my 
vow 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


325 


Burnt  me  within,  so  that  I rose  and 
fled, 

But  wail’d  and  wept,  and  hated  mine 
own  self, 

And  ev’n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but 
her ; 

Then  after  I was  join’d  with  Galahad 

3ared  not  for  her,  nor  anything  upon 
earth.” 

Then  said  the  monk,  “Poor  men, 
when  yule  is  cold, 

Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 

And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 

Ever  so  little;  yea,  and  blest  be 
Heaven 

That  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor 
house  of  ours 

Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard, 
to  warm 

My  cold  heart  with  a friend  : but  0 
the  pity 

To  find  thine  own  first  love  once 
more  — to  hold, 

Hold  her  a wealthy  bride  within  thine 
arms, 

Or  all  but  hold,  and  then  — cast  her 
aside, 

Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a 
weed. 

For  we  that  want  the  warmth  of 
double  life, 

We  that  are  plagued  with  dreams  of 
something  sweet 

Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a life  so 
rich, — 

Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I speak  too  earthly- 
wise, 

Seeing  I never  stray’d  beyond  the  cell, 

3ut  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his 
earth, 

With  earth  about  him  everywhere, 
despite 

111  fast  and  penance.  Saw  ye  none 
beside, 

tfone  of  your  knights  ? ” 

“Yea  so,”  said  Percivale: 

^‘One  night  my  pathway  swerving 
east,  I saw 

e pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir 
Bors 


All  in  the  middle  of  the'  rising  moon: 

And  toward  him  spurr’d,  and  hail’d 
him,  and  he  me,  , 

And  each  made  joy  of  either ; then 
he  ask’d, 

‘ Where  is  he  ? hast  thou  seen  him  — 
Lancelot  ? — Once,’ 

Said  good  Sir  Bors,  * he  dash’d  across 
me  — mad, 

And  maddening  what  he  rode:  and 
when  I cried, 

“ Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a quest 

So  holy,”  Lancelot  shouted,  “ Stay 
me  not ! 

I have  been  the  sluggard,  and  I ride 
apace, 

For  now  there  is  a lion  in  the  way.” 

So  vanish’d.’ 

“ Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 

Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lan- 
celot, 

Because  his  former  madness,  once  the 
talk 

And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  re- 
turn’d; 

For  Lancelot’s  kith  and  kin  so  wor- 
ship him 

That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them ; to  Bors 

Beyond  the  rest : he  well  had  been 
content 

Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might 
have  seen, 

The  Holy  Cup  of  healing;  and,  indeed, 

Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and 
love, 

Small  heart  was  his  after  the  Holy 
Quest : 

If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well : 
if  not, 

The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands 
of  Heaven. 

“ And  then,  with  small  adventure 
met,  Sir  Bors 

Rode  to  the  loneliest  tract  of  all  the 
realm, 

And  found  a people  there  among 
their  crags, 

Our  race  and  blood,  a remnant  that 
were  left 


326 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Paynim  amid  their  circles,  and  the 
stones 

They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven : 
and  their  wise  men 

Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which 
can  trace 

The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and 
scoff'd  at  him 

And  this  high  Quest  as  at  a simple 
thing : 

Told  him  he  follow'd  — almost  Ar- 
thur's words  — 

A mocking  fire : ‘ what  other  fire  than 
he, 

Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the 
blossom  blows, 

And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is 
warm’d  ? ' 

And  when  his  answer  chafed  them, 
the  rough  crowd, 

Hearing  he  had  a difference  with 
their  priests, 

Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged 
him  into  a cell 

Of  great  piled  stones ; and  lying 
bounden  there 

In  darkness  thro'  innumerable 
hours 

He  heard  the  hollow-ringing  heavens 
sweep 

Over  him  till  by  miracle  — what 

else  1 — 

Heavy  as  it  was,  a great  stone  slipt 
and  fell, 

Such  as  no  wind  could  move : and 
thro’ the  gap 

Glimmer’d  the  streaming  scud : then 
came  a night 

Still  as  the  day  was  loud ; and  thro' 
the  gap 

The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur's 
Table  Round  — 

For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because 
they  roll 

Thro’  such  a round  in  heaven,  we 
named  the  stars, 

Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our 
King  — 

And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar 
friends, 

In  on  him  shone : 4 And  then  to  me, 
to  me/ 


Said  good  Sir  Bors,  ‘ beyond  all  hopes 
of  mine, 

Who  scarce  had  pray’d  or  ask'd  it  for 
myself  — 

Across  the  seven  clear  stars  — O 
grace  to  me  — 

In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a hand 

Before  a burning  taper,  the  sweet 
Grail 

Glided  and  past, and  close  upon  it  peal'd 

A sharp  quick  thunder.'  Afterwards, 
a maid, 

Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her 
kin 

In  secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him 
go.” 

To  whom  the  monk:  “And  I re- 
member now 

That  pelican  on  the  casque  : Sir  Bors 
it  was 

Who  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our 
board  ; 

And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace 
was  he  : 

A square-set  man  and  honest ; and  his 
eyes, 

An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth 
within, 

Smiled  with  his  lips  — a smile  beneath 
a cloud, 

But  heaven  had  meant  it  for  a sunny 
one : 

Ay,  ay,  Sir  Bors,  who  else?  But 
when  ye  reach'd 

The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights 
return'd, 

Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur's  proph- 
ecy, 

Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and 
what  the  King  ? '' 

Then  answer'd  Percivale:  “And 
that  can  I, 

Brother,  and  truly;  since  the  living 
words 

Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our 
King 

Pass  not  from  door  to  door  and  out 
again, 

But  sit  within  the  house.  O,  when  we 
reach'd 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


327 


The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as 
they  trode 

On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 

Crack’d  basilisks,  and  splinter’d  cock- 
atrices, 

And  shatter’d  talbots,  which  had  left 
the  stones 

Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us 
to  the  hall. 


“ And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais- 
throne, 

And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 
Quest, 

Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a tithe  of 
them, 

And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before 
the  King, 

Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade 
me  hail, 

Saying,  ‘A  welfare  in  thine  eye  re- 
proves 

Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance 
for  thee 

On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding 
ford. 

So  fierce  a gale  , made  havoc  here  of 
late 

Among  the  strange  devices  of  our 
kings ; 

Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall 
of  ours, 

And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded 
for  us 

Half-wrench’d  a golden  wing;  but 
now  — the  Quest, 

This  vision  — hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 
Cup, 

That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glas- 
tonbury ? ” 


“So  when  I told  him  all  thyself 
hast  heard, 

Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  re- 
solve 

To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life, 

He  answer’d  not,  but,  sharply  turn- 
ing, ask’d 

Of  Gawain,  4 Gawain,  was  this  Quest 
for  thee  ? 9 


“ ‘ Nay,  lord,’  said  Gawain,  ‘ not  for 
such  as  I. 

Therefore  I communed  with  a saintly 
man, 

Who  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not 
for  me ; 

For  I was  much  awearied  of  the 
Quest : 

But  found  a silk  pavilion  in  a field, 

And  merry  maidens  in  it;  and  then 
this  gale 

Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting- 
pin, 

And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all 
about 

With  all  discomfort ; yea,  and  but  for 
this, 

My  twelvemonth  and  a day  were 
pleasant  to  me.’ 

“ He  ceased ; and  Arthur  turn’d  to 
whom  at  first 

He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  entering, 
push’d 

Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot/ 
caught  his  hand, 

Held  it,  and  there,  half -hidden  by  him, 
stood, 

Until  the  King  espied  him,  saying  to 
him, 

‘ Hail,  Bors ! if  ever  loyal  man  and 
true 

Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail ; ’ 
and  Bors, 

‘ Ask  me  not,  for  I may  not  speak  of 
it: 

I saw  it ; ’ and  the  tears  were  in  his 
eyes. 

“Then  there  remain’d  but  Lance- 
lot, for  the  rest 

Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the 
storm ; 

Perhaps,  like  him  of  Cana  in  Holy 
Writ, 

Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the 
last ; 

‘Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,’  ask’d  the 
King,  ‘ my  friend, 

Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail’d 
for  thee  ? ’ 


328 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


“ ‘ Our  mightiest ! ’ answer’d  Lance- 
lot, with  a groan ; 

‘ 0 King ! ’ — and  when  he  paused, 
methought  I spied 

A dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes  — 

* O King,  my  friend,  if  friend  of  thine 
I be, 

Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their 
sin, 

Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for 
slime, 

Slime  of  the  ditch : but  in  me  lived  a 
sin 

So  strange,  of  such  a kind,  that  all  of 
pure, 

Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined 
and  clung 

Round  that  one  sin,  until  the  whole- 
some flower 

And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as 
each, 

Not  to  be  pluck’d  asunder ; and  when 
thy  knights 

Sware,  I sware  with  them  only  in  the 
hope 

That  could  I touch  or  see  the  Holy 
Grail 

They  might  be  pluck’d  asunder.  Then 
I spake 

To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and 
said, 

That  save  they  could  be  pluck’d 
asunder,  all 

My  quest  were  but  in  vain ; to  whom 
I vow’d 

That  I would  work  according  as  he 
will’d. 

And  forth  I went,  and  while  I yearn’d 
and  strove 

To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my 
heart, 

My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old, 

And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far 
away ; 

There  was  I beaten  down  by  little 
men, 

Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving 
of  my  sword 

And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been 
enow 

To  scare  them  from  me  once ; and 
then  I came 


All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore, 

Wide  flats,  where  nothing  but  coarse 
grasses  grew ; 

But  such  a blast,  my  King,  began  to 
blow, 

So  loud  a blast  along  the  shore  and 
sea, 

Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the 
blast, 

Tho’  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all 
the  sea 

Drove  like  a cataract,  and  all  the  sand 

Swept  like  a river,  and  the  clouded 
heavens 

Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the 
sound. 

And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam 
sway’d  a boat, 

Half-swailow’d  in  it,  anchor’d  with  a 
chain ; 

And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I said, 

“ 1 will  embark  and  I will  lose  myself, 

And  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my 
sin.” 

I burst  the  chain,  I sprang  into  the 
boat. 

Seven  days  I drove  along  the  dreary 
deep. 

And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all 
the  stars ; 

And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 
night 

I heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the 
surge, 

And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and 
looking  up, 

Behold,  the  enchanted  towers  of  Car- 
bonek, 

A castle  like  a rock  upon  a rock, 

With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the 
sea, 

And  steps  that  met  the  breaker ! there 
was  none 

Stood  near  it  but  a lion  on  each  side 

That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon 
was  full. 

Then  from  the  boat  I leapt,  and  up 
the  stairs. 

There  drew  my  sword.  With  sudden- 
flaring  manes 

Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright 
like  a man, 


THE  HOL  Y GRAIL. 


329 


Each  gript  a shoulder,  and  I stood 
between ; 

And,  when  1 would  have  smitten 
them,  heard  a voice, 

• Doubt  not,  go  forward ; if  thou 
doubt,  the  beasts 

Will  tear  thee  piecemeal.”  Then  with 
violence 

The  sword  was  dash’d  from  out  my 
hand,  and  fell. 

And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I past ; 

But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I 
saw, 

No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the 
wall 

Or  shield  of  knight ; only  the  rounded 
moon 

Thro’  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 

But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I heard, 

Clear  as  a lark,  high  o’er  me  as  a lark, 

A sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost 
tower 

To  the  eastward:  up  I climb’d  a thou- 
sand steps 

With  pain  : as  in  a dream  I seem’d  to 
climb 

For  ever : at  the  last  I reach’d  a door, 

A light  was  in  the  crannies,  and  I 
heard, 

“ Glory  and  joy  and  honor  to  our 
Lord 

And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail.” 

Then  in  my  madness  I essay’d  the 
door ; 

It  gave ; and  thro’  a stormy  glare,  a 
heat 

As  from  a seventimes-heated  furnace, 

I, 

Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I 
was, 

With  such  a fierceness  that  I swoon’d 
away  — 

0,  yet  methought  I saw  the  Holy 
Grail, 

All  pall’d  in  crimson  samite,  and 
around 

Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  wings 
and  eyes. 

And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my 
sin, 

And  then  my  swooning,  I had  sworn 
I saw 


That  which  I saw;  but  what  I saw 
was  veil’d 

And  cover’d ; and  this  Quest  was  not 
for  me.’ 

“ So  speaking,  and  here  ceasing, 
Lancelot  left 

The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain 
— nay, 

Brother,  l need  not  tell  thee  foolish 
words,  — 

A reckless  and  irreverent  knight  was 
he, 

Now  bolden’d  by  the  silence  of  his 
King,  — 

Well,  I tell  thee:  ‘O  King,  my 
liege,’  he  said, 

‘ Hath  Gawain  fail’d  in  any  quest  of 
thine  ? 

When  have  I stinted  stroke  in  fough- 
ten  field  ? 

But  as  for  thine,  my  good  friend 
Percivale, 

Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven 
men  mad, 

Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than 
our  least. 

But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I 
swear, 

I will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed 
cat, 

And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday 
owl, 

To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 

Henceforward.” 

“ ‘ Deafer,’  said  the  blameless 
King, 

‘ Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  holy 
things 

Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle 
vows, 

Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 

But  if  indeed  there  came  a sign  from 
heaven, 

Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot  and  Per- 
civale, 

For  these  have  seen  according  to 
their  sight. 

For  every  fiery  prophet  in  cld  times, 

And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  th« 

bard. 


330 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


When  God  make  music  thro'  them, 
could  but  speak 

His  music  by  the  framework  and  the 
chord ; 

And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken 
truth. 

“ f Nay  — but  thou  errest,  Lancelot  : 
never  yet 

Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight 
and  man 

Twine  round  one  sin,  whatever  it 
might  be, 

With  such  a closeness,  but  apart  there 
grew. 

Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou 
spakest  of, 

Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure 
nobleness ; 

Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear 
its  flower. 

“ 1 And  spake  I not  too  truly,  0 my 
knights  ? 

Was  I too  dark  a prophet  when  I said 

To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy 
Quest, 

That  most  of  them  would  follow 
wandering  fires, 

Lost  in  the  quagmire  ? — lost  to  me 
and  gone, 

And  left  me  gazing  at  a barren  board, 

And  a lean  Order  — scarce  return’d  a 
tithe  — 

And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision 
came 

My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he 
saw ; 

Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off, 

And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right 
themselves. 

Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 

And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to 
face, 

And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here 
in  vain, 

However  they  may  crown  him  other- 
where. 

“ ‘ And  some  among  you  held,  that 
if  the  King 

Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  have 
sworn  the  vow  : 


Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  King  must 
guard 

That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the 
hind 

To  whom  a space  of  land  is  given  to 
plow. 

Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allot- 
ted field 

Before  his  work  be  done  ; but,  being 
done, 

Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the 
day 

Come,  as  they  will;  and  many  a time 
they  come, 

Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems 
not  earth. 

This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is 
not  light, 

This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is 
not  air 

But  vision  — yea,  his  very  hand  and 
foot  — 

In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot 
die, 

And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  him- 
self, 

Nor  the  high  God  a vision,  nor  that 
One 

Who  rose  again : ye  have  seen  what 
ye  have  seen/ 

“ So  spake  the  King  : I knew  not  all 
he  meant.” 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  tc 
fill  the  gap 

Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ; and  as  he 
sat 

In  the  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high 
doors 

Were  softly  sunder’d,  and  thro*  these 
a youth, 

Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the 
fields 

Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along 
with  him. 

“ Make  me  thy  knight,  because  I 
know,  Sir  King, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


331 


All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I 
love.” 

Such  was  his  cry : for  having  heard 
the  King 

Had  let  proclaim  a tournament  — the 
prize 

A golden  circlet  and  a knightly  sword. 

Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady 
won 

The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the 
sword : 

And  there  were  those  who  knew  him 
near  the  King, 

And  promised  for  him : and  Arthur 
made  him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight,  Sir  Pelleas  of 
the  isles  — 

But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance, 

And  lord  of  many  a barren  isle  was 
he  — 

Riding  at  noon,  a day  or  twain  be- 
fore. 

Across  the  forest  call’d  of  Dean,  to 
find 

Daerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the 
sun 

Beat  like  a strong  knight  on  his 
helm,  and  reel’d 

Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse  ; but 
saw 

Sear  him  a mound  of  even-sloping 
side, 

thereon  a hundred  stately  beeches 
grew, 

And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under 
them ; 

But  for  a mile  all  round  was  open 
space, 

\.nd  fern  and  heath  : and  slowly  Pel- 
leas drew 

To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his 
good  horse 

To  a tree,  cast  himself  down  ; and  as 
he  lay 

^t  random  looking  over  the  brown 
earth 

Thro’  that  green-glooming  twilight  of 
the  grove, 

t seem’d  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern 
without 

ittrnt  as  a living  fire  of  emeralds, 


So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking 
at  it. 

Then  o’er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a 
cloud 

Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a 
bird 

Flying,  and  then  a fawn;  and  his 

eyes  closed. 

And  since  he  loved  all  maidens,  but 
no  maid 

In  special,  half-awake  he  whisper’d, 
“ Where  ? 

O where  ? I love  thee,  tho’  I know 
thee  not. 

For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guine- 
vere, 

And  I will  make  thee  with  my  spear 
and  sword 

As  famous — O my  Queen,  my  Guine* 
vere, 

For  I will  be  thine  Arthur  when  we 
meet.” 

Suddenly  waken’d  with  a sound  of 
talk 

And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood, 
And  glancing  thro’  the  hoary  boles, 
he  saw, 

Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might 
have  seem’d 

A vision  hovering  on  a sea  of  fire, 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of 
bracken  stood : 

And  all  the  damsels  talk’d  confusedly, 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and 
one  that, 

Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose, 
And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to 
the  light. 

There  she  that  seem’d  the  chief  among 
them  said, 

“ In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star ! 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we 
ride, 

Arm’d  as  ye  see,  to  tilt  against  til© 
knights 


332 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our 
way  : 

To  right  ? to  left  ? straight  forward  ? 
back  again  ? 

Which'?  tell  us  quickly.’' 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 

“ Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful  ? ” 

For  large  her  violet  eyes  look’d,  and 
her  bloom 

A rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless 
heavens, 

And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in 
womanhood ; 

And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small 
her  shape ; 

Andbutfor  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts 
of  scorn, 

She  might  have  seem’d  a toy  to  trifle 
with, 

And  pass  and  care  no  more.  But 
while  he  gazed 

The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash’d  the 
hoy, 

As  tho’  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul  : 

For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the 
good, 

Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by 
default 

Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 

All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul 
to  hers, 

Believing  her;  and  when  she  spake 
to  him, 

Stammer’d,  and  could  not  make  her  a 
reply. 

For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he 
come, 

Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had 
known 

Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles, 

Rough  wives,  that  laugh’d  and 
scream’d  against  the  gulls, 

Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the 
sea. 

Then  with  a slow  smile  turn’d  the 
lady  round 

And  look’d  upon  her  people ; and  as 
when 

A stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping 
tarn, 


The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge, 

Spread  the  slow  smile  thro’  all  her 
company. 

Three  knights  were  thereamong;  and 
they  too  smiled, 

Scorning  him ; for  the  lady  was 
Ettarre, 

And  she  was  a great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  “ O wild  and  of  the 
woods, 

Knowest  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our 

speech  ? 

.Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee 
a fair  face, 

Lacking  a tongue  ? ” 

“ O damsel,”  answer’d  he, 

“ I woke  from  dreams ; and  coming 
out  of  gloom 

Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and 
crave 

Pardon : but  will  ye  to  Caerleon  ? I 

Go  likewise : shall  I lead  you  to  the 
King  1 ” 

“ Lead  then,”  she  said ; and  thro’ 
the  woods  they  went. 

And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in 
his  eyes, 

His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste 
awe, 

His  broken  utterances  and  bashful- 
ness, 

Were  all  a burthen  to  her,  and  in  her 
heart 

She  mutter’d,  “I  have  lighted  or  r 
fool. 

Raw,  yet  so  stale ! ” But  since  her 
mind  was  bent 

On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her 
name 

And  title,  “ Queen  of  Beauty,”  in  the 
lists 

Cried  — and  beholding  him  so  strong 
she  thought 

That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for 
me, 

And  win  the  circlet : therefore  flatter’d 
him, 

Being  so  gracious,  that  he  welinigh 
deem’d 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


333 


His  wish  by  hers  was  echo’d ; and  her 
knights 

And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious 
to  him, 

For  she  was  a great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach’d 

Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging, 
she, 

Taking  his  hand,  “ O the  strong  hand,” 
she  said, 

“ See ! look  at  mine  ! but  wilt  thou 
fight  for  me, 

And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 

That  I may  love  thee  ? ” 

Then  his  helpless  heart 

Leapt,  and  he  cried,  “ Ay ! wilt  thou 
if  I win  ? ” 

“ Ay,  that  will  I,”  she  answer’d,  and 
she  laugh’d, 

And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung 
it  from  her ; 

Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three 
knights  of  hers, 

Till  all  her  ladies  laugh’d  along  with 
her. 

“ O happy  world,”  thought  Pelleas, 
“all,  meseems, 

Are  happy;  I the  happiest  of  them 
all.” 

Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in 
his  blood, 

And  green  wood-ways,  and  eyes  among 
the  leaves ; 

Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted, 
sware 

To  love  one  only.  And  as  he  came 
away, 

The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on 
their  heels 

And  wonder’d  after  him,  because  his 
face 

Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a priest 
of  old 

i Against  the  flame  about  a sacrifice 

Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven  : so  glad 
was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets, 
and  strange  knights 


From  the  four  winds  came  in:  and 
each  one  sat, 

Tho’  served  with  choice  from  air,  land, 
stream,  and  sea, 

Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with 
his  eyes 

His  neighbor’s  make  and  might : and 
Pelleas  look’d 

Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream’d 

His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  him- 
self 

Loved  of  the  King  : and  him  his  new- 
made  knight 

Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper 
moved  him  more 

Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the 
world. 

Then  blush’d  and  brake  the  morn- 
ing of  the  jousts, 

* And  this  was  call’d  “ The  Tournament 
of  Youth:” 

For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight, 
withheld 

His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the 
lists, 

That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady’s 
love, 

According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 

Lord  of  the  tourney.  And  Arthur 
had  the  jousts 

Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of 
Usk 

Holden : the  gilded  parapets  were 
crown’d 

With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  fill’d 
with  eyes 

Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets 
blew. 

There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept 
the  field 

With  honor : so  by  that  strong  hand 
of  his 

The  sword  and  golden  circlet  were 
achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved  : 
the  heat 

Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face ; her 
eye 

Sparkled ; she  caught  the  circlet  from 
his  lance, 


334 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


And  there  before  the  people  crown’d 
herself  : 

So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious 
to  him. 

Then  at  Caerleon  for  a space  — her 
look 

Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her 
knight  — 

Linger’d  Ettarre : and  seeing  Pelleas 
droop, 

Said  Guinevere,  “We  marvel  at  thee 
much, 

0 damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 

To  him  who  won  thee  glory!”  And 

she  said, 

“Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in 
your  bower, 

My  Queen,  he  had  not  won.”  Where- 
at the  Queen, 

As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant, 

Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn’d  and 
went  her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and 
herself, 

And  those  three  knights  all  set  their 
faces  home, 

Sir  Pelleas  follow’d.  She  that  saw 
him  cried, 

“Damsels  — and  yet  I should  be 
shamed  to  say  it  — 

1 cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.  Keep  him  back 

Among  yourselves  Would  rather 

that  we  had 

Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the 
worldly  way, 

Albeit  grizzlier  than  a bear,  to  ride 

And  jest  with  : take  him  to  you,  keep 
him  off, 

And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye 
will, 

Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 

Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell 
their  boys. 

Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a merry 
one 

To  find  his  mettle,  good : and  if  he  fly 
us, 

Small  matter ! let  him.”  This  her 
damsels  heard, 


And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel 
hand, 

They,  closing  round  him  thro’  the 
journey  home, 

Acted  her  hest,  and  always  from  her 
side 

Restrain’d  him  with  all  manner  of 
device, 

So  that  he,  could  not  come  to  speech 
with  her. 

And  when  she  gain’d  her  castle,  up- 
sprang  the  bridge, 

Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro’  the 
groove, 

And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

“These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,” 
Pelleas  thought, 

“To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of 
our  faith. 

Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost, 

For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I.” 

So  made,  his  moan;  and,  darkness 
faliing,  sought 

A priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but 
rose 

With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist 
or  dry, 

Eull-arm’d  upon  his  charger  all  day 
long 

Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open’d  to 
him. 

And  this  persistence  turn’d  her 
scorn  to  wrath. 

Then  calling  her  three  knights,  she 
charged  them,  “ Out ! 

And  drive  him  from  the  walls.”  And 
out  they  came, 

But  Pelleas  overthrew  them  as  they 
dash’d 

Against  him  one  by  one ; and  these 
return’d, 

But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath 
the  wall. 

Thereon  her  wrath  became  a hate  ; 
and  once, 

A week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the 
walls 

With  her  three  knights,  she  pointed 
downward,  “ Look, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


335 


He  haunts  me  — 1 cannot  breathe  — 
besieges  me; 

Down  ! strike  him  ! put  my  hate  into 
your  strokes, 

And  drive  him  from  my  walls.”  And 
down  they  went, 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  by 
one ; 

And  from  the  tower  above  him  cried 
Ettarre, 

“ Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in.” 

He  heard  her  voice  ; 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had 
overthrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 
threw 

Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they 
brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre, 
the  sight 

Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one 
glance 

More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in 
his  bonds. 

Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  “ Be- 
hold me,  Lady, 

A prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 

And  if  thou  keep  me  in  thy  donjon  here. 

Content  am  I so  that  I see  thy  face 

But  once  a day  : for  I have  sworn  my 
vows, 

And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and 
I know 

That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my 
faith, 

And  that  thyself,  when  thou  hast  seen 
me  strain’d 

And  sifted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 

Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for 
thy  knight.” 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 

With  all  her  damsels,  he  w*as  stricken 
mute ; 

But  when  she  mock’d  his  vows  and 
the  great  King, 

Lighted  on  words : “ For  pity  of  thine 
own  self, 

Peace,  Lady,  peace:  is  he  not  thine 
and  mine  % ” 


“ Thou  fool,”  she  said,  “ I never  heard 
his  voice 

But  long’d  to  break  away.  Unbind 
him  now, 

And  thrust  him  out  of  doors;  for  save 
he  be 

Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his 
bones, 

He  will  return  no  more.”  And  those, 
her  three, 

Laugh’d,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him 
from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a week  beyond,  again 

She  call’d  them,  saying,  “ There  he 
watches  yet, 

There  like  a dog  before  his  master’s 
door! 

Kick’d,  he  returns : do  ye  not  hate 
him,  ye  ? 

Ye  know  yourselves:  how  can  ye  bide 
at  peace, 

Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence  ? 

Are  ye  but  creatures  of  the  board  and 
bed, 

No  men  to  strike  ? Fall  on  him  all  at 
once, 

And  if  ye  slay  him  I reck  not : if  ye  fail, 

Give  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be 
bound, 

Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him 
in : 

It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his 
bonds.” 


She  spake ; and  at  her  will  they 
couch’d  their  spears, 

Three  against  one : and  Gawain  pass- 
ing by, 

Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 

Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of 
those  towers 

A villany,  three  to  one : and  thro’  his 
heart 

The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 

Flash’d,  and  he  call’d,  “ I strike  upon 
thy  side  — 

The  caitiffs!”  “Nay,”  said  Pelleas, 
“ but  forbear ; 

He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his  lady’s 
will.” 


336 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  villany 
done, 

Forebore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 

Trembled  and  quiver’d,  as  the  dog, 
withheld 

A moment  from  the  vermin  that  he 
sees 

Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs 
and  kills. 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to 
three ; 

And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and 
brought  him  in. 

Then  first  her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas, 
burn’d 

Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil 
name 

Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 
hound : 

« Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit 
to  touch. 

Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and 
thrust  him  out, 

And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his 
bonds. 

And  if  he  comes  again  ” — there  she 
brake  short ; 

And  Pelleas  answer’d,  “ Lady,  for  in- 
deed 

I loved  you  and  I deem’d  you  beauti- 
ful, 

I cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty 
marr’d 

Thro’  evil  spite : and  if  ye  love  me  not, 

I cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  for- 
sworn : 

I had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my 
love, 

Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you— fare- 
well; 

And  tho’  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my 
love, 

Yex  not  yourself : ye  will  not  see  me 
more.” 

While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed 
upon  the  man 

Of  princely  bearing,  tho’  in  bonds, 
and  thought, 

“ Why  hare  I push’d  him  from  me  1 
this  man  loves, 


If  love  there  be : yet  him  I loved  not. 
Why  ? 

I deem’d  him  fool  ? yea,  so  1 or  that 
in  him 

A something  — was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self ? — 

Seem’d  my  reproach  ? He  is  not  of 
my  kind. 

He  could  not  love  me,  did  lie  know  me 
well. 

Nay,  let  him  go  — and  quickly.”  And 
her  knights 

Laugh’d  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden 
out  of  door. 

Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed 
him  from  his  bonds, 

And  flung  them  o’er  the  walls,  and 
afterward, 

Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a lazar’s 
rag, 

“ Faith  of  my  body,”  he  said,  “and 
art  thou  not  — 

Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur 
made 

Knight  of  his  table ; yea  and  he  that 
won 

The  circlet  ? wherefore  hast  thou  so 
defamed 

Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the 
rest, 

As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 
will  ? ” 

And  Pelleas  answer’d,  “0,  their 
wills  are  hers 

For  whom  I won  the  circlet;  and 
mine,  hers. 

Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her 
face, 

Marr’d  tho’  it  be  with  spite  and  mock- 
ery now, 

Other  than  when  I found  her  in  the 
woods ; 

And  tho’  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in 
spite, 

And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring 
me  in, 

Let  me  be  bounden,  I shall  see  hex 

Else  must  I die  thro’  mine  unhappi- 
ness.” 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


337 


And  Gawain  answer’d  kindly  tho’ 
in  scorn, 

Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she 
will, 

tnd  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 
iutan  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
'hese  fighting  hands  of  mine  — Christ 
kill  me  then 

iut  I will  slice  him  handless  by  the 
wrist, 

md  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for 
him, 

[owl  as  he  may.  But  hold  me  for 
your  friend : 

!ome,  ye  know  nothing : here  I pledge 
my  troth, 

'ea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 
will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy 
work, 

md  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to 
thine  hand. 

iend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  I 
will  say 

'hat  I have  slain  thee.  She  will  let 
me  in 

'o  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and 
fall; 

'hen,  when  I come  within  her  coun- 
sels, then 

rom  prime  to  vespers  will  I chant 
thy  praise 

.s  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover, 
more 

han  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till 
she  long 

o have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again, 
ot  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds 
and  warm, 

Nearer  than  freedom.  Wherefore  now 
thy  horse 

nd  armor : let  me  go  : be  comforted : 
ive  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy, 
and  hope 

he  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee 
news  of  gold.” 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all 
his  arms, 

iving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize, 
and  took 

awain’s,  and  said,  “ Betray  me  not, 

but  help  — ■* 


Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light- 
of-love  1 ” 

“ Ay,”  said  Gawain,  “ for  women  be 
so  light.” 

Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle 
walls, 

And  raised  a bugle  hanging  from  his 
neck, 

And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 

That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the 
wall 

Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunt- 
ing-tide. 

Up  ran  a score  of  damsels  to  the 
tower ; 

“ Avaunt,”  they  cried,  “ our  lady  loves 
thee  not.” 

But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  vizor  said, 

“ Gawain  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur’s 
court, 

And  I have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom 
ye  hate : 

Behold  his  horse  and  armor.  Open 
gates, 

And  I will  make  you  merry.” 

And  down  they  ran, 

Her  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady, 
“ Lo! 

Pelleas  is  dead  — he  told  us  — he  that 
hath 

His  horse  and  armor : will  ye  let  him 
in  ? 

He  slew  him ! Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 
court. 

Sir  Gawain  — there  he  waits  below  the 
wall, 

Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say 
him  nay.” 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on 
thro’  open  door 

Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  cour- 
teously. 

“ Dead,  is  it  so  ? ” she  ask’d.  “ Ay, 
ay,”  said  he, 

“And  oft  in  dying  cried  upon  your 
name.” 

“ Pity  on  him,”  she  answer’d,  “ a good 
knight, 


338 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at 
peace.” 

“ Ay,”  thought  Gawain,  “ and  you  be 
fair  enow  : 

But  I to  your  dead  man  have  given 
my  troth, 

That  whom  ye  loathe,  him  will  I make 
you  love.” 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about 
the  land, 

Lost  in  a doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 

Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought 
a moon 

With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods 
and  ways. 

Hot  was  the  night  and  silent ; but  a 
sound 

Of  Gawain  ever  coming,  and  this 
lay — 

Which  Pelleas  had  heard  sung  before 
the  Queen, 

And  seen  her  sadden  listening  — vext 
his  heart, 

And  marr’d  his  rest  — “A  worm 
within  the  rose.” 

“A  rose,  but  one,  none  other  rose 
had  I, 

A rose,  one  rose,  and  this  was  won- 
drous fair, 

One  rose,  a rose  that  gladden’d  earth 
and  sky, 

One  rose,  my  rose,  that  sweeten’d  all 
mine  air  — 

I cared  not  for  the  thorns  ; the  thorns 
were  there. 

“ One  rose,  a rose  to  gather  by  and 

by, 

One  rose,  a rose,  to  gather  and  to 
wear, 

No  rose  but  one  — what  other  rose 
had  I? 

One  rose,  my  rose  ; a rose  that  will 
not  die,  — 

He  dies  who  loves  it,— if  the  worm 
be  there.” 

This  tender  rhyme,  and  evermore 
the  doubt, 


“ Why  lingers  Gawain  with  his  golde 
news  ? ” 

So  shook  him  that  he  could  not  res 
but  rode 

Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  boun 
his  horse 

Hard  by  the  gates.  Wide  open  wer 
the  gates, 

And  no  watch  kept;  and  in  thn 
these  he  past, 

And  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  h 
own  heart 

Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  h 
own  self, 

And  his  own  shadow.  Then  he  cro; 
the  court, 

And  spied  not  any  light  in  hall  c 
bower, 

But  saw  the  postern  portal  also  widi 

Y awning ; and  up  a slope  of  garden,  a 

Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  brambk 
mixt 

And  overgrowing  them,  went  on,  an 
found, 

Here  too,  all  hush’d  below  the  mello 
moon, 

Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a tiny  ca^ 

Came  lightening  downward,  and  s 
spilt  itself 

Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  agair 

Then  was  he  ware  of  three  pav 
ions  rear’d 

Above  the  bushes, gilden-peakt : in  on 

Red  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdar 
knights 

Slumbering,  and  their  three  squir 
across  their  feet : 

In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  li 

Froz’n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  h* 
damsels  lay : 

And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  tl 
jousts 

Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  ai 
Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a hand  that  pushes  thr 
the  leaf 

To  find  a nest  and  feels  a snake,  1 
drew : 

Back,  as  a coward  slinks  from  wh 
he  fears 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


339 


ro  cope  with,  or  a traitor  proven,  or 
hound 

Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 

Creep  with  his  shadow  thro’  the  court 
again, 

Fingering  at  his  sword-handle  until  he 
stood 

rhere  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more, 
and  thought, 

‘I  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where 
they  lie.” 

And  so  went  back,  and  seeing  them 
yet  in  sleep 

Said,  “ Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holy 
sleep, 

four  sleep  is  death,”  and  drew  the 
sword,  and  thought, 

‘ What ! slay  a sleeping  knight?  the 
King  hath  bound 

Ynd  sworn  me  to  this  brotherhood ; ” 
again, 

:Alas  that  ever  a knight  should  be 
so  false.” 

Then  turn  d,  and  so  return’d,  and 
groaning  laid 

file  naked  sword  athwart  their  naked 
throats, 

['here  left  it,  and  them  sleeping ; and 
she  lay, 

?he  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her 
brows, 

hid  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her 
throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting 
on  his  horse 

>tared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than 
themselves 

n their  own  darkness,  throng’d  into 
the  moon. 

’hen  crush’d  the  saddle  with  his 
thighs,  and  clench’d 

[is  hands,  and  madden’d  with  himself 
and  moan’d : 

“ Would  they  have  risen  against 
me  irn  their  blood 

d the  last  day?  I might  have  an- 
swer’d them 

iven  before  high  God.  0 towers  so 
strong, 


Huge,  solid,  would  that  even  while  I 
gaze 

The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to 
your  base 

Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your 
harlot  roofs 

Bellowing,  and  charr’d  you  thro’  and 
thro’  within, 

Black  as  the  harlot’s  heart  — hollow 
ag  a skull ! 

Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro’  your 
eyelet-holes, 

And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round 
and  round 

In  dung  and  nettles!  hiss,  snake  — I 
saw  him  there  — 

Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell. 
Who  yells 

Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night, 
but  I — 

I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call’d 
her  fool  ? 

Fool,  beast  — he,  she,  or  I ? myself 
most  fool ; 

Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit  — 
disgraced, 

Dishonor’d  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 

Love  ? — we  be  all  alike : only  the 
King 

Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.  0 
noble  vows ! 

0 great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of 

brutes 

That  own  no  lust  because  they  have 
no  law ! 

For  why  should  I have  loved  her  to 
my  shame  ? 

1 loathe  her,  as  I loved  her  to  my 

shame. 

I never  loved  her,  I but  lustedf or  her  — 

Away  — ” 

He  dash’d  the  rowel  into  his 
horse, 

And  bounded  forth  and  vanish’d  thro’ 
the  night. 

Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch 
on  her  throat, 

Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn’d 
herself 


340 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTA  REE. 


To  Gawain : “ Liar,  for  thou  hast  not 
slain 

This  Pelleas  ! here  he  stood,  and  might 
have  slain 

Me  and  thyself.”  And  he  that  tells 
the  tale 

Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn’d 

To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on 
earth, 

And  only  lover;  and  thro’  her  love 
her  life 

Wasted  and  pined, desiring  himinvain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half 
the  night, 

And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the 
sod 

From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off 
the  hard, 

Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening 
sun, 

Beside  that  tower  where  Percivale  was 
cowl’d, 

Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of 
the  dawn. 

For  so  the  words  were  flash’d  into  his 
heart 

He  knew  not  whence  or  wherefore: 
“ O sweet  star, 

Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the 
dawn ! ” 

And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but 
felt  his  eyes 

Harder  and  drier  than  s,  fountain 
bed 

In  summer : thither  came  the  village 
girls 

And  linger’d  talking,  and  they  come 
no  more 

Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fill’d  it 
from  the  heights 

Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 

Of  seasons  : hard  his  eyes ; harder  his 
heart 

Seem’d ; but  so  weary  were  his  limbs, 
that  he, 

Gasping,  “ Of  Arthur’s  hall  am  I,  but 
here, 

Here  let  me  rest  and  die,”  cast  him- 
self down, 

And  gulf’d  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep ; 

»o  lay, 


Till  shaken  by  a dream,  that  Gawain 
fired 

The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning 
star 

Reel’d  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 
and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some 
one  nigh, 

Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  hin> 
crying, 

“ False  ! and  I held  thee  pure  as  Guin- 
evere.” 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and 
replied 

“Am  I but  false  as  Guinevere  is 
pure  ? 

Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams  ? or 
being  one 

Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not 
heard 

That  Lancelot  ” — there  he  check’d 
himself  and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  as 
with  one 

Who  gets  a wound  in  battle,  and  the 
sword 

That  made  it  plunges  thro’  the 
wound  again, 

And  pricks  it  deeper : and  he  shrank 
and  wail’d, 

“ Is  the  Queen  false  ? ” and  Percivale 
was  mute. 

“ Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held 
their  vows  ? ” 

And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a 
word. 

“ Is  the  King  true  ? ” “ The  King  ! ” 

said  Percivale. 

“ Why  then  let  men  couple  at  once 
with  wolves. 

What ! art  thou  mad  ? 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up, 

Ran  thro’  the  doors  and  vaulted  on 
his  horse 

And  fled : small  pity  upon  his  horse 
had  he, 

Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he 
met 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE . 


341 


A cripple,  one  that  held  a hand  for 
alms  — 

Hunch’d  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old 
dwarf-elm 

That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast, 
the  boy 

Paused  not,  but  overrode  him,  shout- 
ing, “False, 

And  false  with  Gawain ! ” and  so  left 
him  bruised 

And  batter’d,  and  fled  on,  and  hill 
and  wood 

Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the 
gloom, 

That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the 
world, 

Darken’d  the  common  path : he 
twitch’d  the  reins, 

And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew 
it,  swerve 

Now  off  it  and  now  on ; but  when  he 
saw 

High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Mer- 
lin built, 

Blackening  against  the  dead-green 
stripes  of  even, 

“ Black  nest  of  rats/’  he  groan’d,  “ ye 
build  too  high.” 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city 
gates 

Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily, 

Warm  with  a gracious  parting  from 
the  Queen, 

Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a 
star 

And  marvelling  what  it  was : on 
whom  the  boy, 

Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow- 
grass 

Borne,  clash’d  : and  Lancelot,  saying, 
“ What  name  hast  thou 

That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so 
hard  ? ” 

“I  have  no  name,”  he  shouted,  “a 
scourge  am  I, 

To  lash  the  treasons  of  the  Table 

\ Round.” 

“Yea,  but  thy  name?”  “I  have 
many  names,”  he  cried  : 

“I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate 
and  evil  fame, 


And  like  a poisonous  wind  I pass  to 
blast 

And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and 
the  Queen.” 

“ First  over  me,”  said  Lancelot,  “ shalt 
thou  pass.” 

“Fight  therefore,”  yell’d  the  other, 
and  either  knight 

Drew  back  a space,  and  when  they 
closed,  at  once 

The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  flounder- 
ing flung 

His  rider,  who  call’d  out  from  the 
dark  field, 

“ Thou  art  false  as  Hell : slay  me : I 
have  no  sword.” 

Then  Lancelot,  “Yea,  between  thy 
lips  — and  sharp ; 

But  here  will  I disedge  it  by  thy 
death.” 

“ Slay  then,”  he  shriek’d,  “ my  will  is 
to  be  slain,” 

And  Lancelot,  with  his  heel  upon  the 
fall’n, 

Rolling  his  eyes,  a moment  stood, 
then  spake ; 

“ Rise,  weakling ; I am  Lancelot ; say 
thy  say.” 


And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war- 
horse  back 

To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief 
while 

Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the 
dark  field, 

And  follow’d  to  the  city.  It  chanced 
that  both 

Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and 
pale. 

There  with  her  knights  and  dames 
was  Guinevere. 

Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lance- 
lot 

So  soon  return’d,  and  then  on  Pelleas, 
him 

Who  had  not  greeted  her,  but  cast 
himself 

Down  on  a bench,  hard-breathing. 
“ Have  ye  fought  ? ” 

She  ask’d  of  Lancelot.  “Ay,  my 
Queen,”  he  said- 


342 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT 


* And  thou  hast  overthrown  him  ? ” 
“ Ay,  my  Queen.” 

Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  “0 
young  knight, 

Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood 
in  thee  fail’d 

So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfro- 
wardly, 

A fall  from  him  ? ” Then,  for  he 
answer’d  not, 

“Or  hast  thou  other  griefs'?  If  I, 
the  Queen, 

May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and 
let  me  know.” 

But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 

She  quail’d ; and  he,  hissing  “ I have 
no  sword,” 

Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark. 
The  Queen 

Look’d  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on 
her; 

And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day 
to  be : 

And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a grove  all 
song 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of 
prey ; 

Then  a long  silence  came  upon  the 
hall, 

And  Modred  thought,  “The  time  is 
hard  at  hand.” 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in 
his  mood 

Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur’s 
Table  Round, 

At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellow- 
ing woods, 

Danced  like  a wither’d  leaf  before  the 
hall. 

And  toward  him  from  the  hall,  with 
harp  in  hand, 

And  from  the  crown  thereof  a car- 
canet 

Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 

Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday, 

Came  Tristram,  saying,  “Why  skip 
ye  so,  Sir  Pool  ? ” 


Eor  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding 
once 

Far  down  beneath  a winding  wall  of 
rock 

Heard  a child  wail.  A stump  of  oak 
half  dead, 

From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of 
carven  snakes, 

Clutch’d  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro’ 
mid  air 

Bearing  an  eagle’s  nest : and  thro 
the  tree 

Rush’d  ever  a rainy  wind,  and  thro’ 
the  wind 

Pierced  ever  a child’s  cry : and  crag 
and  tree 

Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  peril 
ous  nest, 

This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  he: 
neck, 

And  all  unscarr’d  from  beak  or  talon 
brought 

A maiden  babe;  which  Arthur  pity 
ing  took, 

Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear 
the  Queen 

But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  whit* 
arms 

Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly 

And  named  it  Nestling;  so  forgo 
herself 

A moment,  and  her  cares ; till  tlia 
young  life 

Being  smitten  in  mid  heaven  witl 
mortal  cold 

Past  from  her;  and  in  time  the  carcane 

Yext  her  with  plaintive  memories  o 
the  child : 

So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  sail 

“Take  thou  the  jewels  of  this  dea« 
innocence, 

And  make  them,  an  thou  wilt,  a toui 
ney-prize.” 

To  whom  the  King,  “ Peace  to  thin 
eagle-borne 

Dead  nestling,  and  this  honor  afte 
death, 

Following  thy  will!  but,  O my  Queer 
I muse 

Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  o 
zone 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


343 


hose  diamonds  that  I rescued  from 
the  tarn, 

nd  Lancelot  won,  methought,  for 
thee  to  wear.” 


“Would  rather  you  had  let  them 
fall,”  she  cried, 

Plunge  and  be  lost  — ill-fated  as 
they  were, 

. bitterness  to  me  ! — ye  look  amazed, 
ot  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon 
as  given  — 

lid  from  my  hands,  when  I was  lean- 
ing out 

hove  the  river — that  unhappy  child 
ast  in  her  barge  : but  rosier  luck 
will  go 

/ith  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that 
they  came 

ot  from  the  skeleton  of  a brother- 
slayer, 

ut  the  sweet  body  of  a maiden  babe, 
erchance  — who  knows  ? — the  pur- 
est of  thy  knights 
ay  win  them  for  the  purest  of  my 
maids.” 


She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a great 
jousts 

rith  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the 

ways 

• om  Camelot  in  among  the  faded 
fields 

) furthest  towers ; and  everywhere 
the  knights 

rm’d  for  a day  of  glory  before  the 
King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud 
morn 

to  the  hall  stagger’d,  his  visage 
ribb’d 

om  ear  to  ear  with  dogwhip-weals, 
his  nose 

idge-broken,  one  eye  out,  and  one 
hand  off, 

id  one  with  shatter’d  fingers  dan- 
gling lame, 

churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the 
King, 


“My  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died, 
what  evil  beast 

Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy 
face  ? or  fiend  ? 

Man  was  it  who  marr’d  heaven’s 
image  in  thee  thus  ? ” 

Then,  sputtering  thro’  the  hedge  of 
splinter’d  teeth, 

Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with 
blunt  stump 

Pitch-blacken’d  sawing  the  air,  said 
the  maim’d  churl, 

“ He  took  them  and  he  drave  them 
to  his  tower  — 

Some  hold  he  was  a table-knight  of 
thine  — 

A hundred  goodly  ones  — the  Red 
Knight,  he  — 

Lord,  I was  tending  swine,  and  the 
Red  Knight 

Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to 
his  tower ; 

And  when  I call’d  upon  thy  name  as 
one 

That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by 
churl, 

Maim’d  me  and  maul’d,  and  would 
outright  have  slain, 

Save  that  he  sware  me  to  a message, 
saying, 

‘ Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars, 
that  I 

Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in 
the  North, 

And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have 
sworn 

My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter 
to  it  and  say 

My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his 
court, 

But  mine  are  worthier,  seeing  they 
profess 

To  be  none  other  than  themselves  — 
and  say 

My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his 
own, 

But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  pro- 
fess 

To  be  none  other;  and  say  his  hour  is 
come, 


344 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long 
lance 

Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a straw. ’ ” 

Then  Arthur  turned  to  Kay  the 
seneschal, 

“Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 
curiously 

Like  a king’s  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 
whole. 

The  heathen  — but  that  ever-climbing 
wave, 

Hurl’d  back  again  so  often  in  empty 
foam, 

Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest  — and 
renegades, 

Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confu- 
sion, whom 

The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of 
otherwhere, 

Friends,  thro’  your  manhood  and  your 
fealty,  — now 

Make  their  last  head  like  Satan  in 
the  North. 

My  younger  knights,  new-made,  in 
whom  your  flower 

Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden 
deeds, 

Move  with  me  toward  their  quelling, 
which  achieved, 

The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from 
shore  to  shore. 

But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my 
place 

Enchair’d  to-morrow,  arbitrate  the 
field ; 

For  wherefore  shouldst  thou  care  to 
mingle  with  it, 

Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own 
again  ? 

Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent : is  it 
well  % ” 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer’d,  " It 
is  well : 

Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and 
leave 

The  leading  of  his  younger  knights 
to  me. 

Else,  for  the  King  has  will’d  it,  it  is 
well.” 


Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  fol* 
low’d  him, 

And  while  they  stood  without  the 
doors,  the  King 

Turn’d  to  him  saying,  “ Is  it  then  so 
well  ? 

Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I seem  as  he 

Of  whom  was  written,  ‘ A sound  is  m 
his  ears  ’ ? 

The  foot  that  loiters,  bidden  go, —the 
glance 

That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  com- 
mand,— 

A manner  somewhat  fall’n  from  rev 
erence  — 

Or  have  I dream’d  the  bearing  of  our 
knights 

Tells  of  a manhood  ever  less  and 
lower  ? 

Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  mj 
realm,  uprear’d, 

By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows 

From  flat  confusion  and  brute  vio 
lences, 

Reel  back  into  the  beast,  and  be  m 
more  ? ” 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  youngei 
knights, 

Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharph 
turn’d 

North  by  the  gate.  In  her  high  bowe: 
the  Queen, 

Working  a tapestry,  lifted  up  he 
head, 

Watch’d  her  lord  pass,  and  knew  no 
that  she  sigh’d. 

Then  ran  across  her  memory  th« 
strange  rhyme 

Of  bygone  Merlin,  “ Where  is  he  wh< 
knows  1 

From  the  great  deep  to  the  grea 
deep  he  goes.” 

But  when  the  morning  of  a tourns 
ment, 

By  these  in  earnest  those  in  mocker 
call’d 

The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Innc 
cence, 

Brake  with  a wet  wind  blowing,  Lai 
celot, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


345 


Round  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like 
birds  of  prey, 

The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shriek’d, 
arose, 

And  down  a streetway  hung  with  folds 
of  pure 

White  samite,  and  by  fountains  run- 
ning wine, 

Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups 
of  gold, 

Moved  to  the  lists,  and  there, with  slow 
sad  steps 

Ascending,  fill’d  his  double-dragon’d 
chair. 

He  glanced  and  saw  the  stately  gal- 
leries, 

Dame,  damsel,  each  thro’  worship  of 
their  Queen 

White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainless 
child, 

And  some  with  scatter’d  jewels,  like 
a bank 

Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks 
of  fire. 

He  look’d  but  once,  and  vail’d  his 
eyes  again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in 
a dream 

To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low 
roll 

Of  Autumn  thunder,  and  the  jousts 
began : 

And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellow- 
ing leaf 

And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower 
and  shorn  plume 

Went  down  it.  Sighing  weariedly,  as 
one 

Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a faded  fire, 

When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past 
away, 

Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o’er 
the  lists. 

He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the 
tournament 

Broken,  but  spake  not ; once,  a knight 
cast  down 

Before  his  throne  of  arbitration 
cursed 


The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the 
King ; 

And  once  the  laces  of  a helmet  crack’d, 

And  show’d  him,  like  a vermin  in  its 
hole, 

Modred,  a narrow  face  : anon  he  heard 

The  voice  that  billow’d  round  the 
barriers  roar 

An  ocean-sounding  welcome  to  one 
knight, 

But  newly-enter’d,  taller  than  the  rest, 

And  armor’d  all  in  forest  green, 
whereon 

There  tript  a hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 

And  wearing  but  a holly-spray  for 
crest, 

With  ever-scattering  berries,  and  on 
shield 

A spear,  a harp,  a bugle  — Tristram 
— late 

From  overseas  in  Brittany  return’d, 

And  marriage  with  a princess  of  that 
realm 

Isolt  the  White  — Sir  Tristram  of  the 
Woods  — 

Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  some- 
time with  pain 

His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn’d 
to  shake 

The  burden  off  his  heart  in  one  full 
shock 

With  Tristram  ev’n  to  death:  his 
strong  hands  gript 

And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and 
left, 

Until  he  groan’d  for  wrath  — so  many 
of  those, 

That  ware  their  ladies’  colors  on  the 
casque, 

Drew  from  before  Sir  Tristram  to  the 
bounds, 

And  there  with  gibes  and  flickering 
mockeries 

Stood,  while  he  mutter’d,  “ Craven 
crests ! O shame ! 

What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they 
sware  to  love  ? 

The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 
more.” 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot 
gave,  the  gems, 


346 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT 


Not  speaking  other  word  than  “Hast 
thou  won  * 

Art  thou  the  purest,  brother  ? See, 
the  hand 

Wherewith  thou  takest  this,  is  red  ! " 
to  whom 

Tristram,  half  plagued  by  Lancelot's 
languorous  mood, 

Made  answer,  “ Ay,  but  wherefore  toss 
me  this 

Like  a dry  bone  cast  to  some  hungry 
hound  ? 

Let  be  thy  fair  Queen's  fantasy. 
Strength  of  heart 

And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use 
and  skill, 

Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our 
King. 

My  hand  — belike  the  lance  hath  dript 
upon  it  — 

No  blood  of  mine,  I trow  ; but  O chief 
knight, 

Right  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield, 

Great  brother,  thou  nor  I have  made 
the  world ; 

Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I in 
mine." 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery 
made  his  horse 

Caracole ; then  bow'd  his  homage, 
bluntly  saying, 

“Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  wor- 
ships each 

Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love, 
behold 

This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not 
here." 

And  most  of  these  were  mute,  some 
anger'd,  one, 

Murmuring,  “All  courtesy  is  dead," 
and  one, 

“ The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 
more." 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt 
and  mantle  clung, 

And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan 
day 

Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and 
weariness  : 


But  under  her  black  brows  a swarthy 
one 

Laugh’d  shrilly,  crying,  “ Praise  the 
patient  saints, 

Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 
past, 

Tho’  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt. 
So  be  it. 

The  snowdrop  only,  flowering  thro’  the 
year, 

Would  make  the  world  as  blank  as 
Winter-tide. 

Come  — let  us  gladden  their  sad  eyes, 
our  Queen's 

And  Lancelot's  at  this  night’s  solemnity 

With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the 
field." 

So  dame  and  damsel  glitter’d  at  the 
feast 

Variously  gay:  for  he  that  tells  the 
tale 

Liken'd  them,  saying,  as  when  an  hour 
of  cold 

Falls  on  the  mountain  in  midsummer 
snows, 

And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain 
flowers 

Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour 
returns 

With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 
again ; 

So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple 
white, 

And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live 
grass, 

Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcup,  pop- 
py, glanced 

About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so 
loud 

Beyond  all  use,  that,  half-amazed, 
the  Queen, 

And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  law- 
less jousts, 

Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to 
her  bower 

Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow 
morn, 

High  over  all  the  yellowing  Autumiv 
tide, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


347 


Danced  like  a wither’d  leaf  before  the 
hall. 

Then  Tristram  saying,  “ Why  skip  ye 
so,  Sir  Fool  7 ” 

Wheel’d  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet 
replied, 

“Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company; 

Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much 
wit 

Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I 
skip 

To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of 
all.” 

“Ay,  fool,”  said  Tristram,  but  ’tis 
eating  dry 

To  dance  without  a catch,  a roundelay 

To  dance  to.”  Then  He  twangled  on 
his  harp, 

And  while  he  twangled  little  Dagonet 
stood 

Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 

Stay’d  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a 
brook ; 

But  when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt 
again ; 

And  being  ask’d,  “ Why  skip  ye  not, 
Sir  Fool  7 ” 

Made  answer,  “ I had  liefer  twenty 
years 

Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 

Than  any  broken  music  thou  canst 
make.” 

Then  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip 
to  come, 

“ Good  now,  what  music  have  I 
broken, fool  7 ” 

And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  “Arthur, 
the  King’s  ; 

For  when  thou  playest  that  air  with 
Queen  Isolt, 

Thou  makest  broken  music  with  thy 
bride, 

Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brit- 
tany — ^ 

And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur’s  music 
too.” 

“ Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy 
brains, 

Sir  Fool,”  said  Tristram,  “I  would 
break  thy  head. 

Fool,  I came  late,  the  heathen  wars 
were  o’er, 


The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by 
the  shell  — 

I am  but  a fool  to  reason  with  a fool  — 

Come,  thou  art  crabb’d  and  sour : 
but  lean  me  down, 

Sir  Dagonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses’ 
ears, 

And  harken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

“‘Free  love  — free  field  — we  love 
but  while  we  may  : 

The  woods  are  hush’d,  their  music  is 
no  more : 

The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past 
away : 

New  leaf,  new  life  — the  days  of  frost 
are  o’er : 

New  life,  new  love,  to  suit  the  newer 
day: 

New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 
before : 

Free  love  — free  field  — we  love  but 
while  we  may.’ 

“Ye  might  have  moved  slow-meas- 
ure  to  my  tune, 

Not  stood  stockstill.  I made  it  in  the 
woods, 

And  heard  it  ring  as  true  as  tested 
gold.” 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised 
in  his  hand, 

“ Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain 
yesterday 

Made  to  run  wine  7 — but  this  had  run 
itself 

All  out  like  a long  life  to  a sour 
end  — „ 

And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  gold- 
en cups 

To  hand  the  wine  to  whosoever  came — 

The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as 
Innocence, 

In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe, 

Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence 
the  Queen 

Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the 
King 

Gave  for  a prize  — and  one  of  those 
white  slips 


348 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty 
one, 

‘Drink,  drink,  Sir  Fool/  and  there- 
upon I drank, 

Spat  — pish  — the  cup  was  gold,  the 
draught  was  mud.” 

And  Tristram,  “ Was  it  muddier  than 
thy  gibes  ? 

Is  all  the  laughter  gone  dead  out  of 
thee  1 — 

Not  marking  how  the  knighthood 
mock  thee,  fool  — 

‘Fear  God:  honor  the  King  — his 
one  true  knight  — 

Sole  follower  of  the  vows’  — for  here 
be  they 

Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I 
came, 

Smuttier  than  blasted  grain : but 
when  the  King 

Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so 
shot  up 

It  frighted  all  free  fool  from  out 
thy  heart; 

Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less 
than  swine, 

A naked  aught  — yet  swine  I hold 
thee  still. 

For  I have  flung  thee  pearls  and  find 
thee  swine.” 

And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 
feet, 

* Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies 
round  my  neck 

In  lieu  of  hers,  I’ll  hold  thou  hast 
some  touch 

Of  music,  since  I care  not  for  thy 
pearls. 

Swine  ? I have  wallow’d,  I have 
wash’d  — the  world 

Is  flesh  and  shadow  — I have  had  my 
day. 

The  dirty  nurse,  Experience,  in  her 
kind 

Hath  foul’d  me  — an  I wallow’d,  then 
I wash’d  — 

I have  had  my  day  and  my  philoso- 
phies — 

And  thank  the  Lord  I am  King  Ar- 
thur’s fool. 


Swine,  say  ye  ? swine,  goats,  asses, 
rams  and  geese 

Troop’d  round  a Paynim  harper  once, 
who  thrumm’d 

On  such  a wire  as  musically  as  thou 

Some  such  fine  song  — but  never  a 
king’s  fool.” 

And  Tristram,  “ Then  were  swine, 
goats,  asses,  geese 

The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim 
bard 

Had  such  a mastery  of  his  mystery 

That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out 
of  hell.” 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball 
of  his  foot, 

“And  whither  harp’st  thou  thine? 
down!  and  thyself 

Down  ! and  two  more : a helpful  harp- 
er thou, 

That  harpest  downward  ! Dost  thou 
know  the  star 

We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in 
heaven  1 ” 

And  Tristram,  “Ay,  Sir  Fool,  for 
when  our  King 

Was  victor  wellnigh  day  by  day,  the 
knights, 

Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his 
name 

High  on  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of 
heaven.” 

And  Dagonet  answer’d,  “ Ay,  and 
when  the  land 

Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye 
set  yourself 

To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  yom 
wit  — 

And  whether  he  were  King  by  cour 
tesy, 

Or  King  by  right  — and  so  went  harp- 
ing down 

The  black  king’s  highway,  got  so  far, 
and  grew 

So  witty  that  ye  play’d  at  ducks  and 
drakes 

With  Arthur’s  vows  on  the  great  lake 
of  fire. 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


349 


Tuwhoo ! do  ye  see  it  ? do  ye  see  the 
star  'i 

"Nay,  fool,”  said  Tristram,  “ not  in 
open  day.” 

And  Dagonet,  “ Nay,  nor  will : I see 
it  and  hear. 

It  makes  a silent  music  up  in  heaven, 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and  the  angels 
hear, 

And  then  we  skip.”  “ Lo,  fool,”  he 
said,  "ye  talk 

Fool's  treason  : is  the  King  thy  brother 
fool ? ” 

Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands 
and  shrill'd, 

“ Ay,  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the  king  of 
fools  ! 

Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can 
make 

Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles, 
milk 

From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hor- 
net-combs, 

And  men  from  beasts  — Long  live  the 
king  of  fools  ! ” 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 
away ; 

But  thro’  the  slowly-mellowing  ave- 
nues 

And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Rode  Tristram  toward  Lyonnesse  and 
the  west. 

Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
For  all  that  walk'd,  or  crept,  or 
perch'd,  or  flew. 

Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a gust  hath 
blown, 

Unruffling  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  re- 
turn'd ; 

But  at  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a deer, 
Or  ev'n  a fall'n  feather, vanish'd  again. 

b So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to 
lawn 

Thro'  many  a league-long  bower  he 
rode.  At  length 


| A lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen- 
boughs 

Furze-cramm’d,  and  bracken-roof t,  the 
which  himself 

Built  for  a summer  day  with  Queen 
Isolt 

Against  a shower,  dark  in  the  golden 
grove 

Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to 
where 

She  lived  a moon  in  that  low  lodge 
with  him : 

Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Corn- 
ish King, 

With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was 
away, 

And  snatch'd  her  thence  ; yet  dread- 
ing worse  than  shame 

Her  warrior  Tristram,  spake  not  any 
word, 

But  bode  his  hour,  devising  wretched- 
ness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tris- 
tram lookt 

So  sweet,  that  halting,  in  he  past,  and 
sank 

Down  on  a drift  of  foliage  random 
blown  ; 

But  could  not  rest  for  musing  how  to 
smoothe 

And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the 
Queen. 

Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from 
all 

The  tonguesters  of  the  court  she  had 
not  heard. 

But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  over- 
seas 

After  she  left  him  lonely  here  ? a 
name  ? 

Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 

Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King  ? 
“ Isolt 

Of  the  white  hands  ” they  call'd  her  : 
the  sweet  name 

Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid 
herself, 

Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 
hands  of  hers, 

And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had 
thought 


350 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT . 


He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily, 

But  left  her  all  as  easily  and  return’d. 

The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish 
eyes 

Had  drawn  him  home  — what  marvel  ? 
then  he  laid 

His  brows  upon  the  drifted  leaf  and 
dream’d. 

He  seem’d  to  pace  the  strand  of 
Brittany 

Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride, 

And  show’d  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 
and  both 

Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his 
Queen 

Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand 
was  red. 

Then  cried  the  Breton,  “Look,  her 
hand  is  red ! 

These  be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen 
blood, 

And  melts  within  her  hand  — her 
hand  is  hot 

With  ill  desires,  but  this  I gave  thee, 
look, 

Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower.” 

Follow’d  a rush  of  eagle’s  wings,  and 
then 

A whimpering  of  the  spirit  of  the 
child, 

Because  the  twain  had  spoiled  her 
carcanet. 

He  dream’d;  but  Arthur  with  a 
hundred  spears 

Rode  far,  till  o’er  the  illimitable  reed, 

And  many  a glancing  plash  and  sal- 
lowy  isle, 

The  wide-wing’d  sunset  of  the  misty 
marsh 

Glared  on  a huge  machicolated  tower 

That  stood  with  open  doors,  where- 
out  was  roll’d 

A roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 

Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their 
ease 

Among  their  harlot-brides,  an  evil 
song. 

“Lo  there,”  said  one  of  Arthur’s 
youth,  for  there, 


High  on  a grim  dead  tree  before  the 

tower, 

A goodly  brother  of  the  Table  Round 

Swung  by  the  neck : and  on  the 
boughs  a shield 

Showing  a shower  of  blood  in  a field 
noir, 

And  there  beside  a horn,  inflamed  the 
knights 

At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur, 

Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and 
blow  the  horn. 

But  Arthur  waved  them  back.  Alone 
he  rode. 

Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the 
great  horn, 

That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh 
aloft 

An  ever  upward-rushing  storm  and 
cloud 

Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red  Knight 
heard,  and  all, 

Even  to  tipmost  lance  and  top- 
most helm, 

In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl’d 
to  the  King, 

“The  teeth  of  Hell  flay  bare  and 
gnash  thee  flat ! — 

Lo  ! art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted 
King 

Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood 
from  the  world  — 

The  woman-worshipper1?  Yea,  God’s 
curse,  and  I ! 

Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  para- 
mour 

By  a knight  of  thine,  and  I that  heard 
her  whine 

And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too 

Sware  by  the  scorpion- worm  that 
twists  in  heil, 

And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death 

To  hang  whatever  knight  of  thine  1 
fought 

And  tumbled.  Art  thou  King  ? — 
Look  to  thy  life  ! ” 

He  ended  : Arthur  knew  the  voice 
the  face 

Wellnigh  was  helmet-hidden,  and  the 
name 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


351 


rent  wandering  somewhere  darkling 
in  his  mind. 

nd  Arthur  deign’d  not  use  of  word 
or  sword, 

ut  let  the  drunkard,  as  he  stretch’d 
from  horse 

:>  strike  him,  overbalancing  his 
bulk, 

own  from  the  causeway  heavily  to 
the  swamp 

ill,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching 
wave, 

eard  in  dead  night  along  that  table- 
shore, 

rops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters 
break 

hitening  for  half  a league,  and  thin 
themselves, 

ir  over  sands  marbled  with  moon 
and  cloud, 

•om  less  and  less  to  nothing ; thus 
lie  fell 

ead-heavy;  then  the  knights,  who 
watch’d  him,  roar’d 

id  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the 
fail’n  ; 

lere  trampled  out  his  face  from 
being  known, 

id  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed 
themselves : 

>r  heard  the  King  for  their  own 
cries,  but  sprang 

iro’  open  doors,  and  swording  right 
and  left 

an,  women,  on  their  sodden  faces, 
hurl’d 

te  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and 
slew 

11  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman- 
yells, 

id  all  the  pavement  stream’d  with 
massacre : 

jjien,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they 
fired  the  tower, 

hich  half  that  autumn  night,  like 
the  live  North, 

d-pulsing  up  thro’  Alioth  and 
Alcor, 

ide  all  above  it,  and  a hundred 
meres  - 

iout  it,  as  the  water  Moab 

saw 


Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  be- 
yond them  flush’d 

The  long  low  dune,  and  lazy-plunging 
sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from 
shore  to  shore, 

But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pain  was 
lord. 

Then,  out  of  Tristram  waking,  the 
red  dream 

Fled  with  a shout,  and  that  low  lodge 
return’d, 

Mid-forest,  and  the  wind  among  the 
boughs. 

He  whistled  his  good  warhorse  left  to 
graze 

Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted 
upon  him, 

And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering 
leaf, 

Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a 
cross, 

Stay’d  him.  “ Why  weep  ye  ? ” 
“ Lord,”  she  said,  “ my  man 

Hath  left  me  or  is  dead ; ” whereon  he 
thought  — 

“ What,  if  she  hate  me  now  ? I 
would  not  this. 

“ What,  if  she  loves  me  still  ? I 
would  not  thart. 

I know  not  what  I wrould  ” — but  said 
to  her, 

“ Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate 
return, 

He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love 
thee  not  ” — 

Then  pressing  day  by  day  thro’ 
Lyonnesse 

Last  in  a rocky  hollow,  belling,  heard 

The  hounds  of  Mark,  and  felt  the 
goodly  hounds 

Yelp  at  his  heart,  but  turning,  past 
and  gain’d 

Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on 
land, 

A crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a casement  sat, 

A low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her 
hair 


352 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


And  glossy-throated  grace,  Isolt  the 
Queen. 

And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tris- 
tram grind 

The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about 
her  tower, 

Flush'd,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors, 
and  there 

Belted  his  body  with  her  white  em- 
brace, 

Crying  aloud,  “ Not  Mark  — not 
Mark,  my  soul ! 

The  footstep  flutter'd  me  at  first : not 
he: 

Catlike  thro'  his  own  castle  steals  my 
Mark, 

But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  thro' 
his  halls 

Who  hates  thee,  as  I him  — ev'n  to 
the  death. 

My  soul,  I felt  my  hatred  for  my 
Mark 

Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that 
thou  wert  nigh." 

To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,  “ I am 
here. 

Let  be  thy  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not 
thine." 

And  drawing  somewhat  backward 
she  replied, 

“ Can  he  be  wrong'd  who  is  not  ev'n 
his  own, 

But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten 

me, 

Scratch'd,  bitten,  blinded,  marr'd  me 
somehow  — Mark  ? 

What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not 
strike  for  them  ? 

Not  lift  a hand  — not,  tho'  he  found 
me  thus ! 

But  hearken ! have  ye  met  him  ? 
hence  he  went 

To-day  for  three  days'  hunting  — as 
he  said  — 

And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 

Mark’s  way,  my  soul ! — but  eat  not 
thou  with  Mark, 

Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than 
fears ; 

Nor  drink : and  when  thou  passest 
any  wood 


Close  vizor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the 
bush 

Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark 
and  hell. 

My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for 
Mark 

Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for 
thee." 

So,  pluck'd  one  way  by  hate  and 
one  by  love, 

Drain’d  of  her  force,  again  she  sat, 
and  spake 

To  Tristram,  as  he  knelt  before  her 
saying, 

“ O hunter,  and  0 blower  of  the  horn 

Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a rovei 
too, 

For,  ere  I mated  with  my  shambling 
king, 

Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  th( 
bride 

Of  one  — his  name  is  out  of  me  — th< 
prize, 

If  prize  she  were  — (what  marvel  — 
she  could  see)  — 

Thine,  friend;  and  ever  since  mj 
craven  seeks 

To  wreck  thee  villanously:  but,  ( 
Sir  Knight, 

What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneel'< 
to  last  ? " 

And  Tristram,  “Last  to  my  Queei 
Paramount, 

Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  o 
love 

And  loveliness  — ay,  lovelier  tha 
when  first 

Her  light  feet  fell  on  our  rough  L} 
onnesse, 

Sailing  from  Ireland." 

Softly  laugh'd  Isolt 

“ Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  grea 
Queen 

My  dole  of  beauty  trebled  ? " and  h 
said, 

“ Her  beauty  is  her  beauty,  and  thin 
thine, 

And  thine  is  more  to  me  — soft,  gra 
cious,  kind  — 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT . 


353 


Save  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on 
thy  lips 

Most  gracious  ; but  she,  haughty,  ev’n 
to  him, 

Lancelot;  for  I have  seen  him  wan  enow 
To  make  one  doubt  if  ever  the  great 
Queen 

Have  yielded  him  her  love.” 

To  whom  Isolt, 
“ Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  har- 
per, thou 

Who  brakest  thro’  the  scruple  of  my 
bond, 

Calling  me  thy  white  hind,  and  say- 
ing to  me 

That  Guinevere  had  sinn’d  against 
the  highest, 

And  I — misyoked  with  such  a want 
of  man  — 

That  I could  hardly  sin  against  the 
lowest.” 

He  answer’d,  “ 0 my  soul,  be  com- 
forted ! 

If  this  be  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading- 
strings, 

If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin, 
Crown’d  warrant  had  we  for  the 
crowning  sin 

That  made  us  happy : but  how  ye 
greet  me  — fear 

And  fault  and  doubt  — no  word  of 
that  fond  tale  — 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet 
memories 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was 
away.” 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 
Isolt, 

“ I had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see  thee  — yearnings  ? — ay  ! for, 
hour  by  hour, 

Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 

O sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee, 
Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 
Seem’d  those  far-rolling,  westward- 
smiling  seas, 

Watch’d  from  this  tower.  Isolt  of 
Britain  dash’d 

Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand, 


Would  that  have  chill’d  her  bride- 
kiss  ? Wedded  her  ? 

Fought  in  her  father’s  battles  ? 
wounded  there? 

The  King  was  all  fulfill’d  with  grate- 
fulness, 

And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands, 
that  heal’d 

Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and 
caress  — 

Well  — can  I wish  her  any  huger 
wrong 

Than  having  known  thee  ? her  too 
hast  thou  left 

To  pine  and  waste  in  those  sweet 
memories. 

O were  I not  my  Mark’s,  by  whom  all 
men 

Are  noble,  I should  hate  thee  more 
than  love.” 

And  Tristram,  fondling  her  light 
hands,  replied, 

“ Grace,  Queen,  for  being  loved  : she 
loved  me  well. 

Did  I love  her  ? the  name  at  least  I 
loved. 

Isolt  ? — I fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt ! 

The  night  was  dark  ; the  true  star  set. 
Isolt ! 

The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark 

Isolt  ? 

Care  not  for  her  ! patient,  and  prayer- 
ful, meek, 

Pale-blooded,  she  will  yield  herself  to 
God.” 

And  Isolt  answer’d,  “Yea,  and  why 
not  I ? 

Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not 
meek, 

Pale-blooded,  prayerful.  Let  me  tell 
thee  now. 

Here  one  black,  mute  midsummer 
night  I sat, 

Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wonder- 
ing where, 

Murmuring  a light  song  I had  heard 
thee  sing, 

And  once  or  twice  I spake  thy  name 
aloud, 


354 


THE  LAS 7'  TOURNAMENT. 


Then  hash’d  a levin-brand ; and  near 
me  stood, 

In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green,  a 
fiend  — 

Mark’s  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 
dark  — 

For  there  was  Mark  : ‘ He  has  wedded 
her,’  he  said, 

Not  said,  but  hiss’d  it : then  this  crown 
of  towers 

So  shook  to  such  a roar  of  all  the 
sky, 

That  here  in  utter  dark  I swoon’d 
away, 

And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and 
cried, 

‘ I will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to 
God’  — 

And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new 
leman’s  arms.” 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with 
her  hand, 

“ May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 
old  and  gray, 

And  past  desire ! ” a saying  that 
anger’d  her. 

“ ‘ May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 
thou  art  old, 

And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! ’ I need 
Him  now. 

For  when  had  Lancelot  utter’d  aught 
so  gross 

Ev’n  to  the  swineherd’s  malkin  in  the 
mast  ? 

The  greater  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 

Far  other  was  the  Tristram,  Arthur’s 
knight ! 

But  thou,  thro’  ever  harrying  thy 
wild  beasts  — 

Save  that  to  touch  a harp,  tilt  with  a 
lance 

Becomes  thee  well  — art  grown  wild 
beast  thyself. 

How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me 
even 

In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me 
far 

In  the  gray  distance,  half  a life  away, 

Her  to  be  loved  no  more  ? Unsay  it, 
unswear ! 

Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak, 


Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  soli- 
tude, 

Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I 
should  suck 

Lies  like  sweet  wines : lie  to  me : I 
believe. 

Will  ye  not  lie  ? not  swear,  as  there 
ye  kneel, 

And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  U> 
him, 

The  man  of  men,  our  King — My 
God,  the  power 

Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed 
the  King ! 

They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and 
thro’  their  vows 

The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm : 
— I say. 

Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev’n 
when  old, 

Gray-hair’d,  and  past  desire,  and  in 
despair.” 


Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up 
and  down, 

"Vows!  did  you  keep  the  vow  you 
made  to  Mark 

More  than  I mine  ? Lied,  say  ye  ? 
Nay,  but  learnt, 

The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 
itself  — 

My  knighthood  taught  me  this  — ay, 
being  snapt  — 

We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul 
thereof 

Than  had  we  never  sworn.  I swear 
no  more. 

I swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am 
forsworn. 

For  once  — ev’n  to  the  height  — I 
honor’d  him. 

4 Man,  is  he  man  at  all  ? ’ methought, 
when  first 

I rode  from  our  rough  Lyonnesse,  and 
beheld 

That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in 
hall  — 

His  hair,  a sun  that  ray’d  from  off  a 
brow 

Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the 
steel-blue  eyes. 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


355 


The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his 
lips  with  light  — 

Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  his 
birth, 

With  Merlin's  mystic  babble  about 
his  end 

Amazed  me ; then,  his  foot  was  on  a 
stool 

Shaped  as  a dragon ; he  seem’d  to  me 
no  man, 

But  Michael  trampling  Satan ; so  I 
sware, 

Being  amazed:  but  this  went  by  — 
The  vows ! 

O ay  — the  wholesome  madness  of 
an  hour — 

They  served  their  use,  their  time ; for 
every  knight 

Believed  himself  a greater  than  him- 
self, 

And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a God; 

Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  him- 
self. 

Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he 
had  done, 

And  so  the  realm  was  made ; but 
then  their  vows  — 

First  mainly  thro’  that  sullying  of 
our  Queen  — 

Began  to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking 
whence 

Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to 
himself  ? 

Dropt  down  from  heaven  ? wash’d 
up  from  out  the  deep  ? 

They  fail’d  to  trace  him  thro’  the 
flesh  and  blood 

Of  our  old  kings:  whence  then?  a 
doubtful  lord 

To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows, 

Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 
violate : 

For  feel  this  arm  of  mine  — the  tide 
within 

Red  with  free  chase  and  heather- 
scented  air, 

Pulsing  full  man;  can  Arthur  make 
me  pure 

As  any  maiden  child?  lock  up  my 
tongue 

From  uttering  freely  what  I freely 
hear? 


Bind  me  to  one?  The  wide  world 
laughs  at  it. 

And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and 
know 

The  ptarmigan  that  whitens  ere  his 
hour 

Woos  his  own  end;  we  are  not  angels 
here 

Nor  shall  be  : vows  — I am  woodman 
of  the  woods, 

And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaffingale 

Mock  them : my  soul,  we  love  but 
while  we  may ; 

And  therefore  is  my  love  so  large  for 
thee, 

Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by 
love.” 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her, 
and  she  said, 

“ Good  : an  I turn’d  away  my  love  for 
thee 

To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as 
thyself  — 

For  courtesy  wins  women  all  as  well 

As  valor  may,  but  he  that  closes  both 

Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot  — taller  in- 
deed, 

Rosier  and  comelier,  thou — but  say  I 
loved 

This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and 
cast  thee  back 

Thine  own  small  saw,  ‘We  love  but 
while  we  may,’ 

Well  then,  what  answer  ? ’ 

He  that  while  she  spake, 

Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn 
her  with, 

The  jewels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly 
touch 

The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat, 
replied, 

“Press  this  a little  closer,  sweet, 
until  — 

Come,  I am  hunger’d  and  half-an- 
ger’d — meat, 

Wine,  wine  — and  I will  love  thee  to 
the  death, 

And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to 
come.” 


356 


GUINEVERE. 


So  then,  when  both  were  brought 
to  full  accord. 

She  rose,  and  set  before  him  all  he 
will’d ; 

And  after  these  had  comforted  the 
blood 

With  meats  and  wines,  and  satiated 
their  hearts  — 

Now  talking  of  their  woodland  para- 
dise, 

The  deer,  the  dews,  the  fern,  the 
founts,  the  lawns ; 

Now  mocking  at  the  much  ungainli- 
ness, 

And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane 
legs  of  Mark  — 

Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the 
harp,  and  sang : 

“Ay,  ay,  O ay  — the  winds  that 
bend  the  brier ! 

A star  in  heaven,  a star  within  the 
niere ! 

Ay,  ay,  O ay  — a star  was  my  desire, 

And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was 
near : 

Ay,  ay,  O ay  — the  winds  that  bow 
the  grass ! 

And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was 
fire, 

And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will 
pass. 

Ay,  ay,  O ay  — the  winds  that  move 
the  mere.” 

Then  in  the  light’s  last  glimmer 
Tristram  show’d 

And  swung  the  ruby  carcanet.  She 
cried, 

“ The  collar  of  some  Order,  which 
our  King 

Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my 
soul, 

For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond 
thy  peers.” 

“ Not  so,  my  Queen,”  he  said,  “ but 
the  red  fruit 

Grown  on  a magic  oak-tree  in  mid- 
heaven, 

And  won  by  Tristram  as  a tourney- 
prize, 


And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for 
his  last 

Love-offering  and  peace-offering  unto 
thee.” 

He  spoke,  he  turn’d,  then,  flinging 
round  her  neck, 

Claspt  it,  and  cried  “ Thine  Order,  O 
my  Queen ! ” 

But,  while  he  bow’d  to  kiss  the  jew- 
ell’d  throat, 

Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had 
touch’d, 

Behind  him  rose  a shadow  and  a 
shriek  — 

“ Mark’s  way,”  said  Mark,  and  clove 
him  thro’  the  brain. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and 
while  he  climb’d, 

All  in  a death-dumb  autumn-drip- 
ping  gloom, 

The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look’d 
and  saw 

The  great  Queen’s  bower  was  dark,  — - 
about  his  feet 

A voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  ques- 
tion’d it, 

“ What  art  thou  ? ” and  the  voice 
about  his  feet 

Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  “I  am 
thy  fool, 

And  I shall  never  make  thee  smile 
again.” 


GUINEVERE. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court, 
and  sat 

There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 

Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a little 
maid, 

A novice  : one  low  light  betwixt  them 
burn’d 

Blurr’d  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all 
abroad, 

Beneath  a moon  unseen  albeit  at  full, 

The  white  mist,  like  a face-cloth  to 
the  face, 

Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 
was  still. 


GUINEVERE. 


357 


For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause 
of  flight 

Sir  Modred;  he  that  like  a subtle 
beast 

Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
throne, 

Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a chance : 
for  this 

He  chill’d  the  popular  praises  of  the 
King 

With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparage- 
ment ; 

And  tamper’d  with  the  Lords  of  the 
White  Horse, 

Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left ; 
and  sought 

To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 

Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 

Serving  his  traitorous  end ; and  all 
his  aims 

Were  sharpen’d  by  strong  hate  for 
Lancelot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when 
all  the  court, 

Green-suited,  but  with  plumes  that 
mock’d  the  may, 

Had  been,  their  wont,  a-maying  and 
return’d, 

That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear 
and  eye, 

Climb’d  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden- 
wall 

To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 

And  saw  the  Queen  who  sat  betwixt 
her  best 

Enid*  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 

The  wiliest  and  the  worst ; and  more 
than  this 

He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing 

t>y 

Spied  where  he  crouch’d,  and  as  the 
gardener’s  hand 

Picks  from  the  colewort  a green  cater- 
pillar, 

So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flower- 
ing grove 

Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck’d  him  by 
the  heel, 

And  cast  him  as  a worm  upon  the  way ; 

But  when  he  knew  the  Prince  tho’ 
marr’d  with  dust. 


He,  reverencing  king’s  blood  in  a bad 
man, 

Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and 
these 

Full  knightly  without  scorn;  for  in 
those  days 

No  knight  of  Arthur’s  noblest  dealt 
in  scorn ; 

But,  if  a man  were  halt  or  hunch’d, 
in  him 

By  those  whom  God  had  made  full- 
limb’d  and  tall, 

Scorn  was  allow’d  as  part  of  his  defect, 
And  he  was  answer’d  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.  So  Sir  Lancelot 
holp 

To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice 
or  thrice 

Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and 
smiled,  and  went : 

But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankledinhim  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day 
long 

A little  bitter  pool  about  a stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she 
laugh’d 

Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred’s  dusty  fall, 
Then  shudder’d,  as  the  village  wife 
who  cries 

“ I shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my 
grave ; ” 

Then  laugh’d  again,  but  faintlier,  for 
indeed 

She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle 
beast, 

Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found, 
and  hers 

Would  be  for  evermore  aname  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front 
in  hall, 

Or  elsewhere,  Modred’s  narrow  foxy 
face, 

Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persis- 
tent eye : 

Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that 
tend  the  soul, 

To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot 
die, 


358 


GUINEVERE. 


And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 

To  vex  and  plague  her.  Many  a time 
for  hours, 

Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the 
King, 

In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came 
and  went 

Before  her,  or  a vague  spiritual  fear  — 

Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creak- 
ing doors, 

Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a haunted 
house, 

That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the 
walls  — 

Held  her  awake : or  if  she  slept,  she 
dream’d 

An  awful  dream ; for  then  she  seem’d 
to  stand 

On  some  vast  plain  before  a setting 
sun, 

And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made 
at  her 

A ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow 
flew 

Before  it,  till  it  touch’d  her,  and  she 
turn’d  — 

When  lo ! her  own,  that  broadening 
from  her  feet, 

And  blackening,  swallow’d  all  the 
land,  and  in  it 

Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a cry  she 
woke. 

And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but 
grew; 

Till  ev’n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless 
King, 

And  trustful  courtesies  of  household 
life, 

Became  her  bane ; and  at  the  last  she 
said, 

“ O Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine 
own  land, 

For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 

And  if  we  meet  again,  some  evil  chance 

Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal 
break  and  blaze 

Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the 
King.” 

And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  re- 
main’d, 

And  still  they  met  and  met.  Again 
she  said, 


“ O Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 
hence.” 

And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a 
t night 

(When  the  good  King  should  not  be 
there)  to  meet 

And  part  for  ever.  Passion-pale  they 
met 

And  greeted  : hands  in  hands,  and  eye 
to  eye, 

Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they 
sat 

Stammering  and  staring  : it  was  their 
last  hour, 

A madness  of  farewells.  And  Modred 
brought 

His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the 
tower 

For  testimony;  and  crying  with  full 
voice 

“ Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at 
last,”  aroused 

Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lionlike 

Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl’d  him  head- 
long, and  he  fell 

Stunn’d,  and  his  creatures  took  and 
bare  him  off, 

And  all  was  still : then  she,  “ The  end 
is  come, 

And  I am  shamed  for  ever ; ” and  he 
said, 

“Mine  be  the  shame;  mine  was  the 
sin : but  rise, 

And  fty  to  my  strong  castle  overseas : 

There  will  I hide  thee,  till  my  life 
shall  end, 

There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against 
the  world.” 

She  answer’d,  “Lancelot,  wilt  thou 
hold  me  so  ? 

Nay,  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our 
farewells. 

Would  God  that  thoucouldst  hide  me 
from  myself! 

Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I was  wife,  and 
thou 

Unwedded  : yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly, 

For  I will  draw  me  into  sanctuary, 

And  bide  my  doom.”  So  Lancelot 
got  her  horse, 

Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his 
own, 


GUINEVERE. 


359 


And  then  theyrode  to  the  divided  way, 

There  kiss’d,  and  parted  weeping  : for 
he  past, 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the 
Queen, 

Back  to  his  land  ; but  she  to  Almes- 
bury 

Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering 
waste  and  weald, 

And  heard  the  spirits  of  the  waste 
and  weald 

Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 
them  moan  : 

And  in  herself  she  moan’d  “ Too  late, 
too  late ! ” 

Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the 
morn, 

A blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying 
high, 

Croak’d,  and  she  thought,  “He  spies 
a field  of  death  ; 

For  now  the  Heathen  of  the  Northern 
Sea, 

Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of 
the  court, 

Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the 
land.” 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury 
she  spake 

There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  “ Mine 
enemies 

Pursue  me,  but,  0 peaceful  Sisterhood, 

Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor 
ask 

Her  name  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her 
time 

To  tell  you  : ” and  her  beauty,  grace 
and  power, 

Wrought  as  a charm  upon  them,  and 
they  spared 

To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 

For  many  a week,  unknown,  among 
the  nuns  ; 

Nor  with  them  mix’d,  nor  told  her 
name,  nor  sought, 

Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for 
shrift, 

But  communed  only  with  the  little 
maid, 


Who  pleased  her  with  a babbling 
heedlessness 

Which  often  lured  her  from  herself ; 
but  now, 

This  night,  a rumor  wildly  blown 
about 

Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurp’d 
the  realm, 

And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen, 
while  the  King 

Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot:  then 
she  thought, 

“ With  what  a hate  the  people  and 
the  King 

Must  hate  me,”  and  bow’d  down  upon 
her  hands 

Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who 
brook’d 

No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  “ Late  ! 
so  late  ! 

What  hour,  I wonder,  now  ? ” and  when 
she  drew 

No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 

An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her ; 
“ Late,  so  late ! ” 

Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen 
look’d  up,  and  said, 

“ 0 maiden,  if  indeed  ye  list  to  sing, 

Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I may 
weep.” 

Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little 
maid. 

“ Late,  late,  so  late  ! and  dark  the 
night  and  chill ! 

Late,  late,  so  late ! but  we  can  enter 
still. 

Too  late,  too  late  ! ye  cannot  enter 
now. 

“ No  light  had  we  : for  that  we  do 
repent ; 

And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom 
will  relent. 

Too  late,  too  late  ! ye  cannot  entei 
now. 

“ No  light : so  late ! and  dark 
and  chill  the  night ! 

O let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light : 

Too  late,  too  late  • ye  cannot  ente: 
now. 


36o 


GUINEVERE. 


“ Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom 
is  so  sweet  ? 

O let  us  in,  tho’  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 

No,  no,  too  late  ! ye  cannot  enter 
now.” 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  pas- 
sionately, 

Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remember- 
ing 

Her  thought  when  first  she  came, 
wept  the  sad  Queen. 

Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling 
to  her, 

“ 0 pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no 
more ; 

But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one 
so  small, 

Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to 
obey, 

And  if  I do  not  there  is  penance  giv- 
en — 

Comfort  your  sorrows;  for  they  do 
not  flow 

From  evil  done ; right  sure  I am  of 
that, 

Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  state- 
liness. 

But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord 
the  King’s, 

And  weighing  find  them  less ; for 
gone  is  he 

To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lance- 
lot there, 

Round  that  strong  castle  where  he 
holds  the  Queen ; 

And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge 
of  all, 

The  traitor  — Ah  sweet  lady,  the 
King’s  grief 

For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen, 
and  realm, 

Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any 
of  ours. 

For  me,  I thank  the  saints,  I am  not 
great. 

For  if  there  ever  come  a grief  to  me 

I cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done. 

None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have 
brought  me  good  : 

But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 


As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet 
this  grief 

Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must 
bear, 

That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 

Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a 
cloud : 

As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 

About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked 
Queen, 

And  were  I such  a King  with  such  a 
Queen, 

Well  might  I wish  to  veil  her  wicked- 
ness, 

But  were  I such  a King,  it  could  not 
be.” 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter’d 
the  Queen, 

“ Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  inno- 
cent talk  1 ” 

But  openly  she  answer'd,  “ Must  not  I, 

If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his 
lord, 

Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all 
the  realm  ? ” 

“Yea,”  said  the  maid,  “this  is  all 
woman’s  grief, 

That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 

Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table 
Round 

Which  good  King  Arthur  founded, 
years  ago, 

With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders, 
there 

At  Camelot,  ere  the  coming  of  the 
Queen.” 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  her- 
self again, 

“ Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  fool- 
ish prate  ? ” 

But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 

“O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery 
walls, 

What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and 
Tables  Round, 

Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 
signs 

And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery  ? 


GUINEVERE. 


361 


To  whom  the  little  novice  garru- 
lously, 

Yea,  but  I know  : the  land  was  full 
of  signs 

,nd  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the 
Queen. 

o said  my  father,  and  himself  was 
knight 

>f  the  great  Table  — at  the  founding 
of  it ; 

Lnd  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse, 
and  he  said 

'hat  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe 
twain 

Jter  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he 
heard 

trange  music,  and  he  paused,  and 
turning  — there, 

dl  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonnesse, 

Jach  with  a beacon-star  upon  his  head, 

ind  with  a wild  sea-light  about  his  feet, 

le  saw  them  — headland  after  head- 
land flame 

"ar  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west : 

lnd  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden 
swam, 

Lnd  strong  man-breasted  things  stood 
from  the  sea, 

rnd  sent  a deep  sea-voice  thro’  all  the 
land, 

’o  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and 
cleft 

lade  answer,  sounding  like  a distant 
horn. 

o said  my  father  — yea,  and  further- 
more, 

ext  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim- 
lit  woods, 

[imself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with 

joy 

ome  dashing  down  on  a tall  wayside 
flower, 

hat  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  this- 
tle shakes 

/'hen  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for 
the  seed : 

nd  still  at  evenings  on  before  his 
horse 

he  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel’d  and 
broke 

lying,  and  link’d  again,  and  wheel’d 
and  broke 


Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 

And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 

A wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 

Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of 
the  hall  ; 

And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a feast 

As  never  man  had  dream’d;  for  every 
knight 

Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long’d  for 
served 

By  hands  unseen  ; and  even  as  he  said 

Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated 
things 

Shoulder’d  the  spigot,  straddling  on 
the  butts 

While  the  wine  ran:  so  glad  were 
spirits  and  men 

Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful 
Queen.” 

Then  spake  the  Queen  and  some- 
what bitterly, 

“ Were  they  so  glad  ? ill  prophets 
were  they  all, 

Spirits  and  men  : could  none  of  them 
foresee, 

Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 

And  wonders,  what  has  fall’n  upon 
the  realm  ? ” 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously 
again, 

“ Yea,  one,  a bard ; of  whom  my  father 
said, 

Full  many  a noble  war-song  had  he 
sung, 

Ev’nin  the  presence  of  an  enemy’s 
fleet, 

Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  com- 
ing wave ; 

And  many  a mystic  lay  of  life  and 
death 

Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain- 
tops, 

When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of 
the  hills 

With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back 
like  flame  : 

So  said  my  father  — and  that  night 
the  bard 

Sang  Arthur’s  glorious  wars,  and 
sang  the  King 


362 


GUINEVERE . 


As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail’d 
at  those 

Who  call’d  him  the  false  son  of  Gor- 
loi’s : 

For  there  was  no  man  knew  from 
whence  he  came ; 

But  after  tempest,  when  the  long 
wave  broke 

All  down  the  thundering  shores  of 
Bude  and  Bos, 

There  came  a day  as  still  as  heaven, 
and  then 

They  found  a naked  child  upon  the 
sands 

Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea ; 

And  that  was  Arthur ; and  they  fos- 
ter’d him 

Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  King : 

And  that  his  grave  should  be  a mystery 

From  all  men,  like  his  birth ; and 
could  he  find 

A woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 

As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  he 
sang, 

The  twain  together  well  might  change 
the  world. 

But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 

He  falter’d,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the 
harp, 

And  pale  he  turn’d,  and  reel’d,  and 
would  have  fall’n. 

But  that  they  stay’d  him  up ; nor 
would  he  tell 

His  vision  ; but  what  doubt  that  he 
foresaw 

This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the 
Queen  ? ” 

Then  thought  the  Queen,  “ Lo ! 
they  have  set  her  on, 

Our  simple-seeming  Abbess  and  her 
nuns, 

To  play  upon  me,”  and  bow’d  her 
head  nor  spake. 

Whereat  fhe  novice  crying,  with 
clasp’d  hands, 

Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garru- 
lously, 

Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her 
gadding  tongue 

Full  often,  “ and,  sweet  lady,  if  I seem 

To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 


Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  th* 
tales 

Which  my  good  father  told  me,  checl 
me  too 

Nor  let  me  shame  my  father’s  mem 
ory,  one 

Of  noblest  manners,  tho’  himsel 
would  say 

Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest ; and  h< 
died, 

Kill’d  in  a tilt,  come  next,  five  sum 
mers  back, 

A nd  left  me  ; but  of  others  who  remain 

And  of  the  two  first-famed  fo 
courtesy  — 

And  pray  you  check  me  if  I asl 
amiss  — 

But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest 
while  you  moved 

Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lore 
the  King  ? ” 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look’d  up  an< 
answer’d  her, 

“ Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a noble 
knight, 

Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  th< 
same 

In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 

Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  the 
King 

In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 

Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these 
two 

Were  the  most  nobly-manner’d  mei 
of  all; 

Formanners  are  not  idle, but  the  frui 

Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind.’ 

“ Yea,”  said  the  maid,  “be  manner! 
such  fair  fruit  ? 

Then  Lancelot’s  needs  must  be  a thou 
sand-fold 

Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 

The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  tin 
world.” 

To  which  a mournful  answer  mad* 
the  Queen : 

“ O closed  about  by  narrowing  nua 
nery-walls, 


GUINEVERE. 


363 


vVhat  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and 
all  its  lights 

,^nd  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all 
the  woe  ? 

f ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble 
knight, 

vVere  for  one  hour  less  noble  than 
himself, 

Dra y for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom 
of  fire, 

\md  weep  for  her  who  drew  him  to 
his  doom.” 

“Yea,”  said  the  little  novice,  “I 
pray  for  both ; 

lut  I should  all  as  soon  believe  that 
his, 

lir  Lancelot’s,  were  as  noble  as  the 
King’s, 

Is  I could  think,  sweet  lady,  yours 
would  be 

iuch  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful 
Queen.” 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler, 
hurt 

V^hom  she  would  soothe,  and  harm’d 
where  she  would  heal ; 

'or  here  a sudden  flush  of  wrathful 
heat 

'ired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen, 
who  cried, 

Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden 
more 

or  ever!  thou  their  tool,  set  on  to 
plague 

md  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 

Lnd  traitress.”  When  that  storm  of 
anger  brake 

'rom  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden 
rose, 

(^hite  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before 
the  Queen 

t.s  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the 

t beach 

tands  in  a wind,  ready  to  break  and 

nd  when  the  Queen  had  added  “ Get 
thee  hence,” 

led  frighted.  Then  that  other  left 
alone 


Sigh’d,  and  began  to  gather  heart 
again, 

Saying  in  herself,  “ The  simple,  fear- 
ful child 

Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fear- 
ful  guilt, 

Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I 
repent. 

For  what  is  true  repentance  but  in 
thought  — 

Not  ev’n  in  inmost  thought  to  think 
again 

The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant 
to  us : 

And  I have  sworn  never  to  see  him 
more, 

To  see  him  more.” 

And  ev’n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the 
mind 

Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden 
days 

In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when 
Lancelot  came, 

Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest 
man, 

Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far 
ahead 

Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on 
love 

And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure 
(for  the  time 

Was  may  time,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 
dream’d,) 

Rode  under  groves  that  look’d  a para- 
dise 

Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem’d  the  heavens  upbreaking 
thro’  the  earth, 

And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious 
dale 

The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur 
raised 

For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ; and  on  again, 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  thej? 
saw 


364 


GUINEVERE. 


The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 
ship, 

That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  the 
King, 

Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent 
well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in 
such  a trance, 

And  moving  thro'  the  past  uncon- 
sciously, 

Came  to  that  point  where  first  she 
saw  the  King 

Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd 
to  find 

Her  journey  done,  glanced  at  him, 
thought  him  cold, 

High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless, 
not  like  him, 

“ Not  like  my  Lancelot " — while  she 
brooded  thus 

And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts 
again, 

There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the 
doors. 

A murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nun- 
nery ran, 

Then  on  a sudden  a cry  “ The  King." 
She  sat 

Stiff-stricken,  listening ; but  when 
armed  feet 

Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer 
doors 

Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat 
she  fell, 

And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against 
the  floor : 

There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and 
shadowy  hair 

She  made  her  face  a darkness  from 
the  King  : 

And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed 
feet 

Pause  by  her;  then  came  silence,  then 
a voice, 

Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a Ghost’s 

Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho' 
changed,  the  King's  : 

“ Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child 
of  one 


I honor’d,  happy,  dead  before  thy 
shame  ? 

Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of 
thee. 

The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword 
and  fire, 

Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of 

laws, 

The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless 
hosts 

Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern 
Sea; 

Whom  I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my 1 
right  arm 

The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode 
with  me, 

Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of 
Christ 

In  twelve  great  battles  ruining  over- 
thrown. 

And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence 
I come  — from  him, 

From  waging  bitter  war  with  him : 
and  he, 

That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in 
worse  way, 

Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him 
left, 

He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the 
King 

Who  made  him  knight : but  many  a 
knight  was  slain ; 

And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and 
kin 

Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own 
land. 

And  many  more  when  Modred  raised 
revolt, 

Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty, 
clave 

To  Modred,  and  a remnant  stays  with 
me. 

And  of  this  remnant  will  I leave  a 
part, 

True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom 
I live, 

To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming 
on, 

Lest  but  a hair  of  this  low  head  be 
harm’d. 

Fear  not : thou  shalt  be  guarded  till 
my  death. 


GUINEVERE . 


365 


[owbeit  I know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
lave  err’d  not,  that  I march  to  meet 
my  doom. 

hou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet 
to  me, 

hat  I the  King  should  greatly  care 
to  live ; 

or  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of 
my  life. 

ear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while 
I show, 

v’n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou 
hast  sinn’d. 

3r  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and 
their  law 

elax’d  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the 
ways 

rere  fill’d  with  rapine,  here  and  there 
a deed 

f prowess  done  redress’d  a random 
wrong. 

ut  I was  first  of  all  the  kings  who 
drew 

le  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm 
and  all 

le  realms  together  under  me,  their 
Head, 

, that  fair  Order  of  my  Table  Round, 
glorious  company,  the  flower  of 
men, 

) serve  as  model  for  the  mighty 
world, 

id  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a time, 
made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine 
and  swear 

)>  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
leir  conscience,  and  their  conscience 
as  their  King, 

> break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the 

j Christ, 

► ride  abroad  redressing  human 

3 wrongs, 

* speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to 

it, 

» honor  his  own  word  as  if  his  God’s, 

» lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 

* love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to 

her, 

id  worship  her  by  years  of  noble 
deeds, 

itil  they  won  her;  for  indeed  I 

knew 


Of  no  more  subtle  master  under 
heaven 

Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a 
maid, 

Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in 
man, 

But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable 
words 

And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of 
fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes 
a man. 

And  all  this  throve  before  I wedded 
thee, 

Believing,  ‘ lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to 
feel 

My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my 

joy-' 

Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with 
Lancelot  ; 

Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and 
Isolt; 

Then  others,  following  these  my 
mightiest  knights, 

And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair 
names, 

Sinn’d  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 

Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  ob- 
tain, 

And  all  thro’  thee ! so  that  this  life  of 
mine 

I guard  as  God’s  high  gift  from  scathe 
and  wrong, 

Not  greatly  care  to  lose  ; but  rather 
think 

How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he 
live, 

To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely 
hall, 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my 
knights, 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble 
deeds 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left, 
could  speak 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance 
at  thee  ? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of 
Usk 

Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from 
room  to  room. 


GUINEVERE . 


366 


And  I should  evermore  be  vext  with 
thee 

In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  orna- 
ment, 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the 
stair. 

For  think  not,  tho’  thou  wouldst  not 
love  thy  lord, 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for 
thee. 

I am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 

Yet  must  I leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy 
shame. 

I hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public 

foes 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children’s 
sake, 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets 
the  wife 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule 
the  house: 

For  being  thro’  his  cowardice  allow’d 

Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for 
pure, 

She  like  a new  disease,  unknown  to 
men, 

Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the 
crowd, 

Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes, 
and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the 
pulse 

With  devil’s  leaps,  and  poisons  half 
the  young. 

Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he 
that  reigns ! 

Better  the  King’s  waste  hearth  and 
aching  heart 

Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of 
light. 

The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their 
bane.” 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she 
crept  an  inch 

Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his 
feet. 

Far  off  a solitary  trumpet  blew. 

Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war- 
horse  neigh’d 

As  at  a friend’s  voice,  and  he  spake 
agaip: 


“ Yet  think  not  that  I come  to  urge 
thy  crimes, 

I did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere/ 

I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me 
die 

To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden 
head, 

My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my 
feet. 

The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts 
on  the  fierce  law, 

The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming 
death, 

(When  first  I learnt  thee  hidden  here) 
is  past. 

The  pang  — which  while  I weigh’d  thy 
heart  with  one 

Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  ir 
thee, 

Made  my  tears  burn  — is  also  past  — 
in  part. 

And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn’d,  and  I 

Lo ! I forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 

Forgives : do  thou  for  thine  own  sou] 
the  rest. 

But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  1 
loved  ? 

0 golden  hair,  with  which  I used  t<j 

play 

Not  knowing!  O imperial-mouldec 
form, 

And  beauty  such  as  never  womai 
wore, 

Until  it  came  a kingdom’s  curse  wit! 
thee  — 

1 cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  no 

mine, 

But  Lancelot’s  : nay,  they  never  wen 
the  King’s. 

I cannot  take  thy  hand ; that  too  i 
flesh, 

And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn’d 
and  mine  own  flesh, 

Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted 
cries 

‘ I loathe  thee : ’ yet  not  less,  O Guinc 
vere, 

For  I was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 

My  love  thro’  flesh  hath  wrought  int 
my  life 

So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I love  the 
still. 


GUINEVERE. 


367 


;et  no  man  dream  but  that  I love  thee 
still. 

Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy 
soul, 

ind  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father 
Christ, 

lereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are 
pure 

V e two  may  meet  before  high  God, 
and  thou 

vTlt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine, 
and  know 

am  thine  husband  — not  a smaller 
soul, 

or  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Leave  me 
that, 

charge  thee,  my  last  hope.  Now 
must  I hence. 

hro’  the  thick  night  I hear  the  trum- 
pet blow  : 

hey  summon  me  their  King  to  lead 
mine  hosts 

ar  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the 
west, 

Hiere  I must  strike  against  the  man 
they  call 

y sister’s  son  — no  kin  of  mine,  who 
leagues 

rith  Lords  of  the  White  Horse, 
heathen,  and  knights, 
raitors  — and  strike  him  dead,  and 
meet  myself 

eath,  or  I know  not  what  mysterious 
I doom. 

ad  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn 
the  event; 

it  hither  shall  I never  come  again, 
iver  lie  by  thy  side;  see  thee  no 
more  — 
irewell ! ” 

And  while  she  grovell’d  at  his  feet, 
e felt  the  King’s  breath  wander  o’er 
1 her  neck, 

id  in  the  darkness  o’er  her  fallen 
head, 

rceived  the  waving  of  his  hands 
that  blest. 

if' 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed 
steps  were  gone, 


Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  an- 
guish found 

The  casement:  “ peradventure,”  so 
she  thought, 

“ If  I might  see  his  face,  and  not  be 
seen.” 

And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door! 

And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each 
a light 

Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 
the  Queen, 

To  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 

And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm 
was  lower’d, 

To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon 
clung 

Of  Britain ; so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 

Which  then  was  as  an  angel’s,  but  she 
saw, 

Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 
lights, 

The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 
ship 

Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a steam 
of  fire. 

And  even  then  he  turn’d ; and  more 
and  more 

The  moony  vapor  rolling  round  the 
King, 

Who  seem’d  the  phantom  of  a Giant 
in  it, 

Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made 
him  gray 

And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 

Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his 
doom. 

Then  she  stretch’d  out  her  arms  and 
cried  aloud 

“ Oh  Arthur ! ” there  her  voice  brake 
suddenly, 

Then  — as  a stream  that  spouting  from 
a cliff 

Fails  in  mid  air,  but  gathering  at  the 
base 

Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 
vale  — 

Went  on  in  passionate  utterance : 

“ Gone  — my  lord ! 

Gone  thro’  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be 
slain ! 


368 


GUINEVERE . 


And  he  forgave  me,  and  I could  not 
speak. 

Farewell  ? I should  have  answer’d 
his  farewell. 

His  mercy  choked  me.  Gone,  my  lord 
the  King, 

My  own  true  lord!  how  dare  I call 
him  mine  ? 

The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 

And  makes  me  one  pollution  : he,  the 
King, 

Call’d  me  polluted : shall  I kill  my- 
self ? 

What  help  in  that  ? I cannot  kill  my 
sin, 

If  soul  be  soul;  nor  can  I kill  my 
shame ; 

No,  nor  by  living  can  I live  it  down. 

The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 
to  months, 

The  months  will  add  themselves  and 
, make  the  years, 

The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries. 

And  mine  will  ever  be  a name  of  scorn. 

I must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of 
fame. 

Let  the  world  be ; that  is  but  of  the 
world 

What  else ? what  hope?  I think  there 
was  a hope, 

Except  he  mock’d  me  when  he  spake 
of  hope ; 

His  hope  he  call’d  it;  but  he  never 
mocks, 

For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little 
hearts. 

And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath 
forgiven 

My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me 
hope 

That  in  mine  own  heart  I can  live 
down  sin 

And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the 
heavens 

Before  high  God.  Ah  great  and  gen- 
tle lord, 

Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a 
saint 

Among  his  warring  senses,  to  thy 
knights  — 

To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride, 
that  took 


Full  easily  all  impressions  from  be 
low, 

Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despisec 
the  height 

To  which  I would  not  or  I could  no 
climb  — 

I thought  I could  not  breathe  in  tha 
fine  air 

That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light  — 

I wanted  warmth  and  color  which 
found 

In  Lancelot  — nowr  I see  thee  wha 
thou  art. 

Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  humai 
too, 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Is  ther 
none 

Will  tell  the  King  I love  him  tho’  s 
late  ? 

Now  — ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Bai 
tie?  none: 

Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  pure 
life, 

But  now  it  were  too  daring.  Ah  m 
God, 

What  might  I not  have  made  of  th 
fair  world, 

Had  I but  loved  thy  highest  creatun 
here  ? 

It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  th 
highest: 

It  surely  was  my  profit  had 
known : 

It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  ha 
I seen. 

We  needs  must  love  the  highest  whe 
we  see  it, 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.” 

Here  her  hanj 

Grasp’d,  made  her  vail  her  eyes  : sh 
look’d  and  saw 

The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  an 
said  to  her, 

“ Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  / not  fot 
given  ? ” 

Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  ho 
nuns 

All  round  her,  weeping  ; and  her  hea] 
was  loosed 

Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  thei 
and  said, 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


369 


“Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked 
one,  who  broke 

The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the 
King. 

0 shut  me  round  with  narrowing 

nunnery  walls, 

Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying 
‘ shame/ 

1 must  not  scorn  myself : he  loves  me 

still. 

Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves 
me  still. 

3o  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me, 

Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with 
you ; 

Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a nun 
like  you, 

Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with 
your  feasts ; 

jrieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving 
at  your  joys, 

3ut  not  rejoicing;  mingle  with  your 
rites ; 

3ray  and  be  pray’d  for;  lie  before 
your  shrines ; 

}o  each  low  office  of  your  holy 
house ; 

Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute 

f dole 

k>  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  His  eyes 
End  of  “ The 


Who  ransom’d  us,  and  haler  too  than 
f y 

And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and 
heal  mine  own ; 

And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in 
prayer 

The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous 
day, 

Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord 
the  King.” 


She  said:  they  took  her  to  them 
selves ; and  she 

Still  hoping,  fearing  “is  it  yet  too 
late  ? ” 

Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their 
Abbess  died. 

Then  she,  for  her  goo$  deeds  and  her 
pure  life, 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in 
her, 

And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she 
had  borne, 

Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess, 
lived 

For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an 
Abbess,  past 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there 
is  peace. 

found  Table.” 


THE  PASSING 

'hat  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedi-  ! 
vere, 

irst  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the 
knights, 

old,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than 
a voice 

i the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to 

* those 

ith  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces, 
other  minds. 

For  on  their  march  to  westward, 
Bedivere, 

ho  slowly  paced  among  the  slumber- 
ing host, 

eard  in  his  tent  the  moanings  of  the 
King : 


OF  ARTHUR. 

“I  found  Him  in  the  shining  of  the 

stars, 

I mark’d  Him  in  the  flowering  of  His 
fields, 

But  in  His  ways  with  men  I find  Him 
not. 

I waged  His  wars,  and  now  I pass  and 
die. 

O me!  for  why  is  all  around  us 
here 

As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the 
world, 

But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he 
would, 

Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  be- 
yond, 

And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful  * 


370 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR . 


Or  else  as  if  the  world  were  wholly 
fair, 

But  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense 
and  dim, 

And  have  not  power  to  see  it  as  it  is : 

Perchance,  because  we  see  not  to  the 
close ; — 

For  I,  being  simple,  thought  to  work 
His  will, 

And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword 
in  vain ; 

And  all  whereon  I lean’d  in  wife  and 
friend 

Is  traitor  to  my  peace,  and  all  my 
realm 

Keels  back  into  the  beast,  and  is  no 
more. 

My  God,  thou  hast  forgotten  me  in 
my  death  : 

Nay — God  my  Christ  — I pass  but 
shall  not  die.” 

Then,  ere  that  last  weird  battle  in 
the  west, 

There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Ga- 
wain  kill’d 

In  Lancelot’s  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 
blown 

Along  a wandering  wind,  and  past  his 
ear 

Went  shrilling,  “ Hollow,  hollow  all 
delight! 

Hail,  King ! to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 
away. 

Farewell ! there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for 
thee. 

And  I am  blown  along  a wandering 
wind, 

And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  de- 
light.” 

And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds 
that  change 

Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail 
their  way 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long 
wind  the  dream 

Shrill’d ; but  in  going  mingled  with 
dim  cries 

Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the 
hills, 

As  of  some  lonely  city  sack’d  by 
night, 


When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child 
with  wail 

Pass  to  new  lords ; and  Arthur  woke 
and  call’d, 

“ Who  spake  ? A dream.  O light 
upon  the  wind, 

Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice  — are 
these  dim  cries 

Thine  ? or  doth  all  that  haunts  the 
waste  and  wild 

Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with 
me?” 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere 
and  spake : 

“ O me,  my  King,  let  pass  whatever 
will, 

Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of 
the  field ; 

But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 
cling 

To  all  high  places  like  a golden  cloud 

For  ever : but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not| 
pass. 

Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 
death 

Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the 
man ; 

And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from 
him,  but  rise  — 

I hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the 
west, 

And  with  him  many  of  thy  people 
and  knights 

Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved 
but  grosser  grown 

Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows 
and  thee. 

Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thet 
for  the  King. 

Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old.’ 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Su 
Bedivere : 

“ Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 

Whereto  we  move,  than  when  w» 
strove  in  youth, 

And  brake  the  petty  kings,  and  fougli 
with  Rome, 

Or  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Romai 
wall, 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR . 


371 


A.nd  shook  him  thro’  the  north.  Ill 
doom  is  mine 

To  war  against  my  people  and  my 
knights. 

The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights 
himself. 

\nd  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me 
once,  the  stroke 

That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death 
to  me. 

fet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a 
way 

Thro’  this  blind  haze,  which  ever 
since  I saw 

)ne  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Jath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the 
world.” 

Then  rose  the  King  and  moved  his 
host  by  night, 

\md  ever  push’d  Sir  Modred,  league 
by  league, 

3ack  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyon- 
nesse — 

^ land  of  old  upheavenfrom  the  abyss 
$y  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again ; 
Vhere  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples 
dwelt, 

Ind  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a 
f coast 

)f  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
’he  phantom  circle  of  a moaning  sea. 
’here  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no 
more, 

md  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the 

« King ; 

md  there,  that  day  when  the  great 
light  of  heaven 

turn’d  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling 
year, 

n the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea 
they  closed. 

or  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a 
fight 

ike  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 
west. 

deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and 
c sea : 

^hereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 
p it,  drew 

own  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart 
was  cold 


With  formless  fear;  and  ev’n  on 
Arthur  fell 

Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he 
fought. 

For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in 
the  mist, 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing 
whom  he  slew; 

And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden 
youth, 

And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old 
ghosts 

Look  in  upon  the  batile ; and  in  the 
mist 

Wa,s  many  a noble  deed,  many  a base, 

And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in 
single  fights, 

And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to 
host 

Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the 
hard  mail  hewn, 

Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of 
brands,  the  crash 

Of  battle-axes  on  shatter’d  helms,  and 
shrieks 

After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling 
down 

Look’d  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw 
the  mist ; 

And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor 
knights, 

Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous 
blasphemies, 

Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of 
the  lungs 

In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the 
light, 

Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the 
dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after 
wail 

Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro’ 
death 

Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 
shore, 

Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething 
seas, 

A dead  hush  fell ; but  when  the  dolo- 
rous day 

Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling, 
came 


372 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR . 


A bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North, 
and  blew 

The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 
tide 

Rose,  and  the  pale  King  glanced 
across  the  field 

Of  battle : but  no  man  was  moving 
there ; 

Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard 
thereon, 

Nor  yet  of  heathen ; only  the  wan 
wave 

Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and 
fro 

Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and#  up 
and  down 

Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets  of  the 
fallen, 

And  shiver’d  brands  that  once  had 
fought  with  Rome, 

And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy 
shores 

The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to 
be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere, 

And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day 
long 

Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the 
King : 

“ Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that 
shakes  the  world, 

And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon 
we  move, 

And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead, 

My  dead,  as  tho’  they  had  not  died 
for  me  ? — 

O Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath 
fall’n 

Confusion,  till  I know  not  what  I am, 

Nor  whence  I am,  nor  whether  I be 
King. 

Behold,  I seem  but  King  among  the 
dead.” 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
“ My  King, 

King  everywhere!  and  so  the  dead 
have  kings. 

There  also  will  I worship  thee  as  King. 


Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I 
live 

Who  love  thee ; but  who  hates  thee, 
he  that  brought 

The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder 
stands, 

Modred,  unharm’d,  the  traitor  of  thine 
house.” 

Then  spake  the  King : “ My  house 
hath  been  my  doom. 

But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my 
house 

Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof 
with  me. 

My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware 
my  vows, 

Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them 
own’d  me  King. 

And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark 
hour, 

When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne 
hath  fail’d, 

That  quick  or  dead  thou  holdest  me 
for  King. 

King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry  ; 

And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt 
thou  see 

Yet,  ere  I pass.”  And  uttering  this 
the  King 

Made  at  the  man : then  Modred  smotd 
his  liege 

Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a 
heathen  sword 

Had  beaten  thin ; while  Arthur  at  one 
blow, 

Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excali 
bur, 

Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself 
he  fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  batth 
roll’d 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  wintej 
sea; 

Until  King  Arthur’s  Table,  man  b; 
man, 

Had  fall’n  in  Lyonnesse  about  thei 
lord, 

King  Arthur.  Then,  because  bi 
wound  was  deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR . 


373 


And  bore  him  to  a chapel  nigh  the 
field, 

A broken  chancel  with  a broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a dark  strait  of  barren 
land  : 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a great  water,  and  the  moon  was 
full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere : 

‘The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous 
knights 

Whereof  this  world  holds  record. 
Such  a sleep 

They  sleep  — the  men  I loved.  I 
think  that  we 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knight- 
ly deeds, 

Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the 
halls 

)f  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were, 
perish  by  this  people  which  I made, — 
Tho’  Merlin  sware  that  I should  come 
‘ again 

To  rule  once  more  ; but,  let  what  will 
be,  be, 

! am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
A hat  without  help  I cannot  last  till 
morn. 

?hou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excal- 
libur, 

Vhich  was  my  pride:  for  thou  re- 
memberest  how 

n those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 
an  arm 

lose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 
1 lake, 

clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

folding  the  sword  — and  how  I rovTT 
across 

[ md  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 
: king ; 

nd,  wheresoever  I am  sung  or 
told 

i ,aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
ut  now  delay  not : take  Excalibur, 
nd  fling  him  far  into  the  middle 
mere : I 


Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly 
bring  me  word.” 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

“ It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 
thus, 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro’ 
the  helm  — 

A little  thing  may  harm  a wounded 
man ; 

Yet  I thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 

Watch  what  I see,  and  lightly  bring 
thee  word.” 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin’d  shrine 
he  stept, 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 
tombs, 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  an- 
cient men, 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He, 
stepping  down 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 
rock, 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the 
lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur, 

And  o’er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon, 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a long  cloud, 
ran  forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 
the  hilt : 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  dia- 
mond sparks, 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth- 
work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.  He  gazed  so 
long 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he 
stood, 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 
mind, 

In  act  to  throw  : but  at  the  last  it 
seem’d 

Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal’d 

There  in  the  many -knotted  waterflags, 


374 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR . 


That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 
marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wound- 
ed King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bed- 
ivere  : 

“ Hast  thou  perform’d  my  mission 
which  I gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen'2  or  what 
hast  heard  1 ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bed- 
ivere : 

“ I heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds, 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the 
crag.” 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 
and  pale : 

“ Thou  hast  betray’d  thy  nature  and 
thy  name, 

Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  be- 
seem’d 

Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a noble  knight : 

Bor  surer  sign  had  follow’d,  either 
hand, 

Or  voice,  or  else  a motion  of  the  mere. 

This  is  a shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 

Yet  now,  I charge  thee,  quickly  go 
again, 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 
thing 

I bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 
me  word.” 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 
time 

Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside 
the  mere, 

Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix’d  in 
thought ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the 
hilt, 

How  curiously  and  strangely  chased, 
he  smote 

His  palms  together,  and  he  cried 
aloud  : 

“ And  if  indeed  I cast  the  brand 
away, 


Surely  a precious  thing,  one  worthy 
note, 

Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  i 
earth, 

Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyesi 
of  many  men. 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 
were  done  ? 

What  harm,  undone  ? Deep  harm  to 
disobey, 

Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule 

Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a king 
demand 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself 

The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  wha 
he  does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  Ion 

Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empU 
breath 

And  rumors  of  a doubt  ? But  wer< 
this  kept, 

Stored  in  some  treasure-house  o 
mighty  kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a joust  o 
arms, 

Saying,  ‘ King  Arthur’s  sword,  Excal 
bur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  th* 
Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  i 
the  deeps 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  th 
aftertime 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverend 

But  now  much  honor  and  much  fain 
were  lost.” 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  ow  j 
conceit, 

And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  tiru 

And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  woun< 
ed  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breatl 
ing  heavily : 

“ What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  1 or  win 
hast  heard  ? ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bed 
vere  : 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


375 


I hoard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds.” 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur, 
much  in  wrath : 

wAh,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!  Woe  is 
me ! 

Authority  forgets  a dying  king, 

Laid  widow’d  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowed  the  will.  I see  thee  what 
thou  art, 

For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my 
knights, 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  pre- 
cious hilt ; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the 
eyes. 

Yet,  for  a man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  .third  time  may  prosper,  get 
thee  hence : 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my 
hands.” 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere, 
and  ran, 

And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 
plunged 

Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutch’d 
the  sword, 

And  strongly  wheel’d  and  threw  it. 
The  great  brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of 
the  moon, 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and 
whirl’d  in  an  arch, 

Shot  like  a streamer  of  the  northern 
morn, 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  win- 
ter shock 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  Northern 
Sea. 

So  flash’d  and  fell  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur : 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 
in  arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 


And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish’d  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere. 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the 
King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing 
thicker  breath: 

“Now  see  I by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 
done. 

Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 
or  seen  ? ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bed- 
ivere : 

“ Sir  King,  I closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 
the  gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I never 
saw, 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till 
I die, 

Not  tho1  I live  three  lives  of  mortal 
men, 

So  great  a miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I flung  him, 
wheeling  him ; 

But  when  I look’d  again,  behold  an 
arm, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish’d  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere.” 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur, 
breathing  hard : 

“ My  end  draws  nigh ; ’tis  time  that 
I were  gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 
my  weight, 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I 
fear 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I 
shall  die.” 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he 
half  rose, 

Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his 
arm,  * 


376 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 
eyes 

As  in  a picture.  Him  Sir  Bedivere 

Remorsefully  regarded  thro’  his  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 
not  words  ; 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 
one  knee, 

O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands, 

And  rising  bore  him  thro’  the  place 
of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk’d,  King  Arthur 
panted  hard, 

Like  one  that  feels  a nightmare  on 
his  bed 

When  all  the  house  is  mute.  So 
sigh’d  the  King, 

Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear, 
“ Quick,  quick ! 

I fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I shall  die.” 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from 
ridge  to  ridge, 

Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 
as  he  walk’d, 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen 
hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 
cry 

Before.  His  own  thought  drove  him 
like  a goad. 

Dry  clash’d  his  harness  in  the  icy 
caves 

And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left 
and  right 

The  bare  black  cliff  clang’d  round 
him,  as  he  based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 
rang 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 
heels  — 

And  on  a sudden,  lo ! the  level  lake, 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter 
moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a 
dusky  bargp. 

Dark  as  a funeral  scart  from  stem  to 
stern. 

Beneath  them ; and  descending  ihey 
were  ware 


That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with 
stately  forms, 

Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a 
dream  — by  these 

Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold; 
and  from  them  rose 

A cry  that  shiver’d  to  the  tingling 
stars, 

And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 

Of  lamentation,  like  a wind  that 
shrills 

All  night  in  a waste  land,  where  no 
one  comes, 

Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of 
the  world. 

Then  murmur’d  Arthur,  “Place  me 
in  the  barge.” 

So  to  the  barge  they  came.  There 
those  three  Queens 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the 
King,  and  wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them 
all 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her 
lap, 

And  loosed  the  shatter’d  casque,  and 
chafed  his  hands, 

And  call’d  him  by  his  name,  complain 
ing  loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a 
brow 

Striped  with  dark  blood : for  all  hh 
face  was  white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither’d 
moon 

Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  th< 
springing  east ; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash’C 
with  drops 

Of  onset ; and  the  light  and  lustrom 
curls  — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a rising 
sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne  — wert 
parch’d  with  dust , 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging 
loose, 

Mix’d  with  the  knightly  growth  tlia! 
fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a shatter’d  column  lay  the 
King ; 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


377 


Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 
in  rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a star  of  tourna- 
ment, 

Shot  thro’  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 
charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir 
Bedivere  : 

“ Ah  ! my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 
I go  ? 

Where  shall  I hide  my  forehead  and 
my  eyes  ? 

For  nowl  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 

When  every  morning  brought  a noble 
chance, 

And  every  chance  brought  out  a noble 
knight. 

Such  times  have  been  not  since  the 
light  that  led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of 
myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is 
dissolved 

Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 
world, 

And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companion- 

, less, 

And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and 
the  years, 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 
minds.” 

And  slowly  answer’d  Arthur  from 
the  barge : 

“The  old  order  changeth,  yielding 
place  to  new, 

And  Gcd  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 
the  world. 

Comfort  thyself : whatcomfortis  in  me? 

[ have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which 
I have  done 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure! 
but  thou, 

[f  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face 
again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are 
wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.  Where- 
fore, let  thy  voice 


Rise  like  a fountain  for  me  night  and 
day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep 
or  goats 

That  nourish  a blind  life  within  the 
brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 
of  prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who 
call  them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 
way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet 
of  God. 

But  now  farewell.  I am  going  a long 
way 

With  these  thou  seest  — if  indeed  I go 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 
doubt)  — 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 
snow. 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ; but  it 
lies* 

Deep-meadow’d,  happy,  fair  with  or- 
chard lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown’d  with 
summer  sea, 

Where  I will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound.” 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 
and  sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted swan 

That,  fluting  a wild  carol  ere  her  death, 

R uffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

Look’d  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn, 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

But  when  that  moan  had  past  for 
evermore, 

The  stillness  of  the  dead  world’s  win- 
ter dawn 

Amazed  him,  and  he  groan’d,  “ The 
King  is  gone.” 


378 


TO  THE  QUEEN, 


And  therewithal  came  on  him  the  weird 
rhyme, 

“From  the  great  deep  to  the  great 
deep  he  goes.” 

Whereat  he  slowly  turn'd  and  slowly 
clomb 

The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron 
crag; 

Thence  mark’d  the  black  hull  moving 
yet,  and  cried, 

“ He  passes  to  be  King  among  the 
dead, 

And  after  healing  of  his  grievous 
wound 

He  comes  again;  but  — if  he  come  no 
more  — 

O me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon 
black  boat. 

Who  shriek’d  and  wail’d,  the  three 
whereat  we  gazed 

On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with 
living  light, 

They  stood  before  his  thfone  in  si- 
lence, friends 


Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 
need  ? ” 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem’d  there 
came,  but  faint 

As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 

Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a great  cry, 

Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one 
voice 

Around  a king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about, 
and  clomb 

Ev’n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb, 
and  saw. 

Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of 
hand, 

Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that 
bare  the  King, 

Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the 
deep 

Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on, 
and  go 

From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 

And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new 
year. 


TO  THE 

O loyal  to  the  royal  in  thyself, 

And  loyal  to  thy  land,  as  this  to 
thee 

Bear  witness,  that  rememberable  day, 

When,  pale  as  yet,  and  fever-worn,  the 
Prince 

Who  scarce  had  pluck’d  his  flickering 
life  again 

From  halfway  down  the  shadow  of 
the  grave, 

Fast  with  thee  thro’  thy  people  and 
their  love, 

And  London  roll’d  one  tide  of  joy 
thro’  all 

Her  trebled  millions,  and  loud  leagues 
of  man 

And  welcome  ! witness,  too,  the  silent 
cry, 

The  prayer  of  many  a race  and  creed, 
and  clime  — 

Thunderless  lightnings  striking  under 
sea 


QUEEN. 

From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy 
realm. 

And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  lately 
heard 

A strain  to  shame  us  “ keep  you  to 
yourselves ; 

So  loyal  is  too  costly!  friends  — your 
love 

Is  but  a burthen  : loose  the  bond,  and 
go.” 

Is  this  the  tone  of  empire  ? here  the 
faith 

That  made  us  rulers'?  this,  indeed, 
her  voice 

And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hou 
goumont 

Left  mightiest  of  all  peoples  under 
heaven  ? 

What  shock  has  fool’d  her  since,  that 
she  should  speak 

So  feebly  ri  wealthier  — wealthier  — 
hour  by  hour ! 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


379 


rhe  voice  of  Britain,  or  a sinking  land, 

Some  third-rate  isle  half-lost  among 
her  seas  ? 

There  rang  her  voice,  when  the  full 
city  peal’d 

[diee  and  thy  Prince ! The  loyal  to 
their  crown 

Are  loyal  to  their  own  far  sons,  who 
love 

')ur  ocean-empire  with  her  boundless 
homes 

For  ever-broadening  England,  and  her 
throne 

[n  our  vast  Orient,  and  one  isle,  one 
isle, 

rhat  knows  not  her  own  greatness  : if 
she  knows 

And  dreads  it  we  are  fairn. But 

thou,  my  Queen, 

Not  for  itself,  but  thro*  thy  living  love 

For  one  to  whom  I made  it  o’er  his 
grave 

Sacred,  accept  this  old  imperfect  tale, 

New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war 
with  Soul 

Rather  than  that  gray  king,  whose 
name,  a ghost, 

Streams  like  a cloud,  man-shaped, 
from  mountain  peak, 

And  cleaves  to  cairn  and  cromlech 
still ; or  him 

Of  Geoffrey’s  book,  or  him  of  Malle- 
or’s,  one 

Touch’d  by  the  adulterous  finger  of  a 
time 

That  hover’d  between  war  and  wan- 
tonness, 

And  crownings  and  dethronements : 
take  withal 


Thy  poet’s  blessing,  and  his  trust  that 
Heaven 

Will  blow  the  tempest  in  the  distance 
back 

From  thine  and  ours:  for  some  are 
scared,  who  mark, 

Or  wisely  or  unwisely,  signs  of  storm, 

Waverings  of  every  vane  with  every 
wind, 

And  wordy  trucklings  to  the  transient 
hour, 

And  fierce  or  careless  looseners  of  the 
faith, 

And  Softness  breeding  scorn  of  simple 
life, 

Or  Cowardice,  the  child  of  lust  for  gold, 

Or  Labor,  with  a groan  and  not  a voice, 

Or  Art  with  poisonous  honey  stol’n 
from  France, 

And  that  which  knows,  but  careful  for 
itself, 

And  that  which  knows  not,  ruling  that 
which  knows 

To  its  own  harm : the  goal  of  this 
great  world 

Lies  beyond  sight : yet  — if  our  slowly- 
grown 

And  crown’d  Republic’s  crowning 
common-sense, 

That  saved  her  many  times,  not  fail  — 
their  fears 

Are  morning  shadows  huger  than  the 
shapes 

That  cast  them,  not  those  gloomier 
which  forego 

The  darkness  of  that  battle  in  the 
West, 

Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies 

| away. 


THE  PEDsTOESS; 

A MEDLEY. 


PROLOGUE. 

Sir  Waiter  Vivian  all  a summer’s 
day 

Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of 
sun 

Up  to  the  people:  thither  flock’d  at 
noon 

His  tenants,  wife  and  child,  and 
thither  half 

The  neighboring  borough  with  their 
Institute 

Of  which  he  was  the  patron.  I was 
there 

From  college,  visiting  the  son,  — the 
son 

A Walter  too, — with  others  of  our 
set, 

Five  others  : we  were  seven  at  Vivian- 
place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter 
show’d  the  house, 

Greek,  set  with  busts : from  vases  in 
the  hall 

Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier 
than  their  names, 

Grew  side  by  side ; and  on  the  pave- 
ment lay 

Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the 
park, 

Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones 
of  Time ; 

And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and 
age 

Jumbled  together ; celts  and  calumets, 

Claymore  and  snowshoe,  toys  in  lava, 
fans 

Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries, 


Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in 

sphere, 

The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and 
battle-clubs 

From  the  isles  of  palm  : and  higher  on 
the  walls, 

Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk 
and  deer, 

His  own  forefathers’  arms  and  armor 
hung. 

And  “ this  ” he  said  “ was  Hugh’s  ax 
Agincourt ; 

And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph’s  at  As- 
calon : 

A good  knight  he  ! we  keep  a chronicle 

With  all  about  him”  — which  he 
brought,  and  I 

Dived  in  a hoard  of  tales  that  dealt 
with  knights, 

Half-legend,  half-historic,  counts  and 
kings 

Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills 
and  died ; 

And  mixt  with  these,  a lady,  one  that 
arm’d 

Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro 
the  gate, 

Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 
her  walls. 

“0  miracle  of  women,”  said  the 
book, 

“0  noble  heart  who,  being  strait- 
besieged 

By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his 
wish, 

Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn’d  a 
soldier’s  death, 


382 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem’d 
as  lost  — 

Her  stature  more  than  mortal  in  the 
burst 

Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on 
fire  — 

Brake  with  a blast  of  trumpets  from 
the  gate, 

And,  falling  on  them  like  a thunder- 
bolt, 

She  trampled  some  beneath  her 
horses’  heels. 

And  some  were  whelm’d  with  missiles 
of  the  wall, 

And  some  were  push’d  with  lances 
from  the  rock, 

And  part  were  drown’d  within  the 
wnirling  brook : 

O miracle  of  noble  womanhood ! ” 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chroni- 
cle ; 

And,  I all  rapt  in  this,  “ Come  out,” 
he  said, 

“To  the  Abbey  : there  is  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth 

And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest.”  We 
went 

(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger 
in  it) 

Down  thro’  the  park  : strange  was  the 
sight  to  me ; 

For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur’d, 
sown 

With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 

There  moved  the  multitude,  a thou- 
sand heads : 

The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 

Taught  them  with  facts.  One  rear’d 
a font  of  stone 

And  drew,  from  butts  of  water  on  the 
slope, 

The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing, 
now 

A twisted  snake,  and  now  a rain  of 
pearls, 

Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded 
ball 

Danced  like  a wisp : and  somewhat 
lower  down 

A man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials 
fired 


A cannon  : Echo  answer’d  in  her  sleep 

From  hollow  fields  : and  here  were 
telescopes 

For  azure  views ; and  there  a group 
of  girls 

In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric 
shock 

Dislink’d  with  shrieks  and  laughter  : 
round  the  lake 

A little  clock-work  steamer  paddling 
plied 

And  shook  the  lilies  : perch’d  about 
the  knolls 

A dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam : 

A petty  railway  ran : a fire-balloon 

Rose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky 
groves 

And  dropt  a fairy  parachute  and 
past : 

And  there  thro’  twenty  posts  of  tele- 
graph 

They  flash’d  a saucy  message  to  and 
fro 

Between  the  mimic  stations ; so  that 
sport 

Went  hand  in  hand  with  Science; 
otherwhere 

Pure  sport:  a herd  of  boys  with 
clamor  bowl’d 

And  stump’d  the  wicket;  babies  roll’d 
about 

Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass ; and  men 
and  maids 

Arranged  a country  dance,  and  flew 
thro’  light 

And  shadow,  while  the  twangling 
violin 

Struck  up  with  Soldier-laddie,  and 
overhead 

The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty 
lime 

Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from 
end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking 
of  the  time ; 

And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at 
length 

Came  to  the  ruins.  High-arch’d  and 
ivy-claspt, 

Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a 
fire, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


383 


Thro’  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and 
frost  they  gave 

The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house ; but 
all  within 

The  sward  was  trim  as  any  garden 
lawn : 

And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 

And  Lilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady 
friends 

From  neighbor  seats  : and  there  was 
Ralph  himself, 

A broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall, 

As  gay  as  any.  Lilia,  wild  with  sport. 

Half  child  half  woman  as  she  was, 
had  wound 

A scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony 
helm, 

And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a rosy  silk, 

That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his 
ivied  nook 

Glow  like  a sunbeam  : near  his  tomb 
a feast 

Shone,  silver-set ; about  it  lay  the 
guests, 

And  there  we  join’d  them : then  the 
maiden  Aunt 

Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from 
it  preach’d 

An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd, 

And  all  things  great;  but  we,  un- 
worthier,  told 

Of  college : he  had  climb’d  across  the 
spikes, 

And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt 
the  bars, 

And  he  had  breath’d  the  Proctor’s 
dogs ; and  one 

Discuss’d  his  tutor,  rough  to  common 
men, 

But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a lord ; 

And  one  the  Master,  as  a rogue  in 
grain 

Veneer’d  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk’d,  above  their 
heads  I saw 

The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad ; which 
brought 

My  book  to  mind  : and  opening  this  I 
read 

Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a page  or  two  that 
rang 


With  tilt  and  tourney  ; then  the  tale 
of  her 

That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter 
from  her  walls, 

And  much  I praised  her  nobleness, 
and  “ Where,” 

Ask’d  Walter,  patting  Lilia’s  head 
(she  lay 

Beside  him)  “ lives  there  such  a 
woman  now  ? ” 

Quick  answer’d  Lilia  “ There  are 
thousands  now 

Such  women,  but  convention  beats 
them  down : 

It  is  but  bringing  up ; no  more  than 
that : 

You  men  have  done  it:  how  I hate 
you  all ! 

Ah,  were  I something  great!  I wish  I 
were 

Some  mighty  poetess,  I would  shame 
you  then, 

That  love  to  keep  us  children ! 0 I 

wish 

That  I were  some  great  princess,  I 
would  build 

Far  off  from  men  a college  like  a 
man’s, 

And  I would  teach  them  all  that  men 
are  taught ; 

We  are  twice  as  quick!”  And  here 
she  shook  aside 

The  hand  that  play’d  the  patron  with 
her  curls. 

And  one  said  smiling  “ Pretty  were 
the  sight 

If  our  old  halls  could  change  their 
sex,  and  flaunt 

With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowager? 
for  deans, 

And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their 
golden  hair. 

I think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty 
gowns, 

But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths, 
or  Ralph 

Who  shines  so  in  the  corner;  yet  I 
fear, 

If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood, 


384 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


However  deep  you  might  embower  the 
nest, 

Some  boy  wrould  spy  it.” 

At  this  upon  the  sward 

She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal’d  foot : 

“ That’s  your  light  way ; but  I would 
make  it  death 

For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us.” 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself 
she  laugh’d ; 

A rosebud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns, 

And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make 
her,  she  : 

But  Walter  hail’d  a score  of  names 
upon  her, 

And  “ petty  Ogress,”  and  “ ungrateful 
Puss,” 

And  swore  he  long’d  at  college, 
only  long’d, 

All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 

They  boated  and  they  cricketed ; they 
talk’d 

At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics ; 

They  lost  their  weeks ; they  vext  the 
souls  of  deans ; 

They  rode  ; they  betted ; made  a hun- 
dred friends, 

And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying 
terms, 

But  miss’d  the  mignonette  of  Vivian- 
place, 

The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.  Thus 
he  spoke, 

Part  banter,  part  affection. 

“ True,”  she  said, 

“We  doubt  not  that.  O yes,  you 
miss’d  us  much. 

I’ll  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you 
did.” 

She  held  it  out;  and  as  a parrot 
turns 

Up  thro’  gilt  wires  a crafty  loving  eye, 

And  takes  a lady’s  finger  with  all  care, 

And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for 
harm, 

So  he  with  Lilia’s.  Daintily  she 
shriek’d 

And  wrung  it.  “ Doubt  my  word 
again ! ” he  said. 


“ Come,  listen  ! here  is  proof  that  you 
were  miss’d : 

We  seven  stay’d  at  Christmas  up  to 
read  ; 

And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to 
read : 

The  hard-grain’d  Muses  of  the  cube 
and  square 

Were  out  of  season  : never  man,  I 
think, 

So  moulder’d  in  a sinecure  as 
he : 

For  while  our  cloisters  echo’d  frosty 
feet, 

And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare 
as  brooms, 

We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you 
all 

In  wassail ; often,  like  as  many  girls  — 

Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of 
home  — 

As  many  little  trifling  Lilias  — play’d 

Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas 
here, 

And  what’s  my  thought  and  when  and 
where  and  how , 

And  often  told  a tale  from  mouth  to 
mouth 

As  here  at  Christmas.” 

She  remember’d  that  : 

A pleasant  game,  she  thought : she 
liked  it  more 

Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the 
rest. 

But  these  — what  kind  of  tales  did 
men  tell  men, 

She  wonder’d  by  themselves  ? 

A half-disdain 

Perch’d  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her 
lips : 

And  Walter  nodded  at  me ; “ He 
began, 

The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn ; 
and  so 

We  forged  a sevenfold  story.  Kind  ? 
what  kind  'f 

Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmas  sole- 
cisms, 

Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to 
kill 

Time  by  the  fire  in  winter.” 

‘ Kill  him  now, 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


385' 


The  tyrant!  kill  him  in  the  summer 
too,” 

Said  Lilia ; “ Why  not  now  1 ” the 
maiden  Aunt. 

“ Why  not  a summer’s  as  a winter’s 
tale  ? 

A tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time, 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the 
place. 

Heroic,  for  a hero  lies  beneath. 

Grave,  solemn ! ” 

Walter  warp’d  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I 
laugh’d 

And  Lilia  woke  with  sudden-shrilling 
mirth 

An  echo  like  a ghostly  woodpecker, 
Hid  in  the  ruins ; till  the  maiden 
Aunt 

(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch’d 
her  face 

With  color)  turn’d  to  me  with  “As 
you  will ; 

Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will, 

Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will.” 

“Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine” 
clamor’d  he, 

“ And  make  her  some  great  Princess, 
six  feet  high, 

Grand,  epic,  homicidal ; and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her  ! ” 

“ Then  follow  me,  the  Prince,” 
I answer’d,  “ each  be  hero  in  his  turn ! 
Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a 
dream.  — 

Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  re- 
quired — 

But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time 
and  place, 

A Gothic  ruin  and  a Grecian  house, 

A talk  of  college  and  of  ladies’  rights, 
A feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade, 
And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  ex- 
periments 

For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had 
burnt  them  all  — 

This  were  a medley ! we  should  have 
him  back 

Who  told  the  ‘ Winter’s  tale  ’ to  do  it 
for  us. 


No  matter  we  will  say  whatever 
comes 

And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 

Prom  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a 
song 

To  give  us  breathing-space.” 

So  I began, 

And  the  rest  follow’d  . and  the  women 
sang 

Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the 
men, 

Take  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind : 

And  here  I give  the  story  and  the 
songs. 

i. 

A prince  I was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in 
face, 

Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of 
May, 

With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a 
girl. 

For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern 
star 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in 
our  'house. 

Some  sorcerer,  whom  a far  off  grand- 
sire  burnt 

Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  fore- 
told. 

Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood 
should  know 

The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and 
that  one 

Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows 
and  to  fail 

For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 

And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more 
or  less, 

An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the 
house. 

Myself  too  had  weird  seizures,  Heaven 
knows  what : 

On  a sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and 
day. 

And  while  I walk’d  and  talk  d as  here- 
tofore, 

I seem’d  to  move  among  a world  of 
ghosts, 

And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a 
dream. 


386 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt- 
head  cane, 

And  paw’d  his  beard,  and  mutter’d 
“ catalepsy.” 

My  mother  pitying  made  a thousand 
prayers ; 

My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint, 

Half-canonized  by  all  that  look’d  on 
her, 

So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tender- 
ness: 

But  my  good  father  thought  a king  a 
king ; 

He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the 
house ; 

He  held  his  sceptre  like  a pedant’s 
wand 

To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms 
and  hands 

Reach’d  out,  and  pick’d  offenders 
from  the  mass 

For  judgment. 

Now  it  chanced  that  I had  been, 

While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade, 
betroth’d 

To  one,  a neighboring  Princess:  she 
to  me 

Was  proxy-wedded  with  a bootless  calf 

At  eight  years  old ; and  still  from 
time  to  time 

Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from 
the  South, 

And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puis- 
sance ; 

And  still  I wore  her  picture  by  my 
heart, 

And  one  dark  tress ; and  all  around 
them  both 

Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees 
about  their  queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that 
I should  wed, 

My  father  sent  ambassadors  with 
furs 

And  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her  : these 
brought  back 

A present,  a great  labor  of  the  loom ; 

And  therewithal  an  answer  vague  as 
wind  : 

Besides,  they  saw  the  king;  he  took 
the  gifts ; 


He  said  there  was  a compact;  that 
was  true : 

But  then  she  had  a will;  was  he  to 
blame  ? 

And  maiden  fancies ; loved  to  live 
alone 

Among  her  women ; certain,  would 
not  wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room 
I stood 

With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  my  two 
friends : 

The  first,  a gentleman  of  broken  means 

(His  father’s  fault)  but  given  to  starts 
and  bursts 

Of  revel ; and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 

And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we 
moved 

Together,  twinn’d  as  horse’s  ear  and 
eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,  I saw  my 
father’s  face 

Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a rising 
moon, 

Inflamed  with  wrath:  he  started  on 
his  feet, 

Tore  the  king’s  letter,  snow’d  it  down, 
and  rent 

The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro’  warp 
and  woof 

From  skirt  to  skirt ; and  at  the  last 
he  sware 

That  he  would  send  a hundred  thou- 
sand men, 

And  bring  her  in  a whirlwind : then 
he  chew’d 

The  thrice-turn’d  cud  of  wrath,  and 
cook’d  his  spleen, 

Communing  with  his  captains  of  the 
war. 

At  last  I spoke.  “ My  father,  let  me 
go. 

It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 

In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a king, 

Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hos- 
pitable : 

Or,  maybe,  I myself,  my  bride  once 
seen, 

Whate’er  my  grief  to  find  her  less 
than  fame. 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


387 


May  rue  the  bargain  made.”  And 
Florian  said  : 

“ I have  a sister  at  the  foreign  court, 

Who  moves  about  the  Princess;  she, 
you  know, 

Who"  wedded  with  a nobleman  from 
thence : 

He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I hear, 

The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land  : 

Thro’  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted 
clean.” 

And  Cyril  whisper’d  : “Take  me  with 
you  too.” 

Then  laughing  “ what,  if  these  weird 
seizures  come 

Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one 
near 

To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the 
truth ! 

Take  me  : I’ll  serve  you  better  in  a 
strait ; 

I grate  on  rusty  hinges  here:”  but 
“ No ! ” 

Roar’d  the  rough  king,  “ you  shall  not ; 
we  ourself 

Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies 
dead 

In  iron  gauntlets : break  the  council 
up.” 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I rose 
and  past 

Thro’  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about 
the  town ; 

Found  a still  place,  and  pluck’d  her 
likeness  out; 

Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch’d  it 
lying  bathed 

In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell’d 
trees  : 

What  were  those  fancies  ? wherefore 
break  her  troth  ? 

Proud  look’d  the  lips:  but  while  I 
meditated 

A wind  arose  and  rush’d  upon  the 
South, 

And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers, 
and  the  shrieks 

Of  the  wild  woods  together;  and  a 
Voice 

Went  with  it,  “ Follow,  follow,  thou 
shalt  win.” 


Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that 
month 

Became  her  golden  shield,  I stole  from 
court 

With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  unper- 
ceived, 

Cat-footed  thro’  the  town  and  half  in 
dread 

To  hear  my  father’s  clamor  at  our 
backs 

With  Ho!  from  some  bay-window 
shake  the  night ; 

But  all  was  quiet : from  the  bastion’d 
walls 

Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we 
dropt, 

And  flying  reach’d  the  frontier : then 
we  crost 

To  a livelier  land ; and  so  by  tilth 
and  grange, 

And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wil- 
derness, 

We'  gain’d  the  mother-city  thick  with 
towers, 

And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the 
king. 

His  name  was  Gama;  crack’d  and 
small  his  voice, 

But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a wrin- 
kling wind 

On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in 
lines ; 

A little  dry  old  man,  without  a star, 

Not  like  a king  : three  days  he  feasted 
us, 

And  on  the  fourth  I spake  of  why  we 
came, 

And  my  betroth’d.  “You  do  us. 
Prince,”  he  said, 

Airing  a snowy  hand  and  signet 

* gem, 

“ All  honor.  We  remember  love  our- 
selves 

In  our  sweet  youth : there  did  a com- 
pact pass 

Long  summers  back,  a kind  of  cere- 
mony — 

I think  the  year  in  which  our  olives 
fail’d. 

I would  you  had  her,  prince,  with  all 
my  heart, 


388 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


With  my  full  heart:  but  there  were 
widows  here, 

Two  widows,  Lady  Psyche,  Lady 
Blanche; 

They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of 
place 

Maintaining  that  with  equal  hus- 
bandry 

The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 

They  harp’d  on  this;  with  this  our 
banquets  rang ; 

Our  dances  broke  and  buzz’d  in  knots 
of  talk  ; 

Nothing  but  this;  my  very  ears  were  hot 

To  hear  them : knowiedge,  so  my 
daughter  held, 

Was  all  in  all : they  had  but  been,  she 
thought, 

As  children  ; they  must  lose  the  child, 
assume 

The  woman  : then,  Sir,  awful  odes  she 
wrote, 

Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated 

of. 

But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful ; 
odes 

About  this  losing  of  the  child;  and 
rhymes 

And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesyingchange 

Beyond  all  reason  : these  the  women 
sang; 

And  they  that  know  such  things  — I 
sought  but  peace; 

No  critic  I — would  call  them  master- 
pieces : 

They  master’d  me.  At  last  she  begff’d 
a boon, 

A certain  summer-palace  which  I 
have 

Hard  by  your  father’s  frontier : I said 
no, 

Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it:  ante 
there, 

All  wild  to  found  an  University 

For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled; 
and  more 

We  know  not,  — only  this:  they  see 
no  men, 

Notev’n  her  brother  Arac, nor  the  twins 

Her  brethren,  tho’  they  love  her,  look 
upon  her 

As  on  a kind  of  paragon ; and  I 


(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loth 
to  breed 

Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine  : but 
since 

(And  I confess  with  right)  you  think 
me  bound 

In  some  sort,  I can  give  you  letters  to 
her; 

And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I rate 
your  chance 

Almost  as  naked  nothing.” 

Thus  the  king; 

And  I,  tho’  nettled  that  he  seem’d  to 
slur 

With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courte- 
sies 

Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all 
frets 

But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my 
bride) 

Went  forth  again  with  both  my 
friends.  We  rode 

Many  a long  league  back  to  the  North. 
At  last 

From  hills,  that  look’d  across  a land 
of  hope, 

We  dropt  with  evening  on  a rustic 
town 

Set  in  a gleaming  river’s  crescent- 
curve, 

Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties; 

There,  enter’d  an  old  hostel,  call’d 
mine  host 

To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest 
wines, 

And  show’d  the  late-writ  letters  of 
the  king. 

He  with  a long  low  sibilation,  stared 

As  blank  as  death  in  marble;  then  ex- 
claim’d 

Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 

For  any  man  to  go  : but  as  his  brain 

Began  to  mellow,  “If  the  king,”  he 
said, 

“ Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound 
to  speak  ? 

The  king  would  bear  him  out;”  and 
at  the  last  — 

The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  his 
veins  — 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


389 


"No  doubt  that  we  might  make  it 
worth  his  while. 

She  once  had  passed  that  way;  he 
heard  her  speak ; 

She  scared  him ; life  ! he  never  saw 
the  like ; 

She  look’d  as  grand  as  doomsday  and 
as  grave  : 

And  he,  he  reverenced  his  liege-lady 
there ; 

He  always  made  a point  to  post  with 
mares ; 

His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were 
the  boys : 

The  land,  he  understood,  for  miles 
about 

Was  till’d  by  women;  all  the  swine 
were  sows, 

And  all  the  dogs  ” — 

But  while  he  jested  thus, 

A thought  flash’d  thro’  me  which  I 
clothed  in  act, 

Remembering  how  we  three  presented 
Maid 

Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide 
of  feast, 

In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father’s 
court. 

We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female 
gear ; 

He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a sight  to 
shake 

The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter, 
holp 

To  lace  us  up,  till,  each,  in  maiden 
plumes 

We  rustled : him  we  gave  a costly 
bribe 

To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good 
steeds, 

And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow’d  up  the  river  as  we 
rode, 

And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  col- 
lege lights 

Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 

And  linden  alley  : then  we  past  an 
arch, 

Whereon  a woman-statue  rose  with 
wings 


From  four  wing’d  horses  dark  against 
the  stars ; 

And  some  inscription  ran  along  the 
front, 

But  deep  in  shadow  : further  on 
we  gain’d 

A little  street  half  garden  and  half 
house ; 

But  scarce  could  hear  each  other 
speak  for  noise 

Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  ham- 
mers falling 

On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and 
stir 

Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  shower- 
ing down 

In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the 
rose : 

And  all  about  us  peal’d  the  nightin- 
gale, 

Rapt  in  her  song,  and  careless  of  the 
snare. 

There  stood  a bust  of  Pallas  for  a 
sign, 

By  two  sphere  lamps  blazon’d  like 
Heaven  and  Earth 

With  constellation  and  with  con. 
tinent, 

Above  an  entry  : riding  in,  we  call’d; 

A plump-arm’d  Ostleress  and  a stable 
wench 

Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help’d 
us  down. 

Then  stept  a buxon  hostess  forth, 
and  sail’d, 

Full-blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which 
gave 

Upon  a pillar’d  porch,  the  bases  lost 

In  laurel : her  we  ask’d  of  that  and 
this, 

And  who  were  tutors.  “ Lady 
Blanche,”  she  said, 

“ And  Lady  Psyche.”  “ Which  was 
prettiest, 

Best-natured  ? ” “ Lady  Psyche.” 

“ Hers  are  we,” 

One  voice,  we  cried ; and  I sat  down 
and  wrote, 

In  such  a hand  as  when  a field  of  corn 

Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring 
East ; 


390 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


u Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire 
pray 

Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with 
your  own, 

As  Lady  Psyche’s  pupils.” 

This  I seal’d : 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a scroll. 
And  o’er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung, 
And  rais’d  the  blinding  bandage  from 
his  eyes  ; 

I gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn  ; 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I 
seem’d 

To  float  about  a glimmering  night, 
and  watch 

A full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moon- 
light, swell 

On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it 
was  rich. 

ii. 

As  thro’  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck’d  the  ripen’d  ears, 

We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 

O we  fell  out  I know  not  why, 

And  kiss’d  again  with  tears. 

And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 
That  all  the  more  endears, 

When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 
And  kiss  again  with  tears ! 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 
We  lost  in  other  years, 

There  above  the  little  grave, 

O there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss’d  again  with  tears. 

At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress 
came : 

She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a silken  hood  to  each, 
And  zoned  with  gold ; and  now  when 
these  were  on, 

And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk 
cocoons, 

She,  courtesying  her  obeisance,  let  us 
know 

The  Princess  Ida  waited  : out  we  paced, 

I first,  and  following  thro’  the  porch 
that  sang 

All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a court 
Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss’d  with 
lengths 

Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings 

. 

Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great 
urns  of  flowers. 


The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group’d  in 
threes, 

Enring’d  a billowing  fountain  in  the 
midst ; 

And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges 
lay 

Or  book  or  lute ; but  hastily  we  past, 

And  up  a flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a board  by  tome  and  paper 
sat, 

With  two  tame  leopards  couch’d  be- 
side her  throne 

All  beauty  compass’d  in  a female  form, 

The  Princess ; liker  to  the  inhabitant 

Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the 
Sun, 

Than  our  man’s  earth ; such  eyes  were 
in  her  head, 

And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breath- 
ing down 

From  over  her  arch’d  brows,  with 
every  turn 

Lived  thro’  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long 
hands, 

And  to  her  feet.  She  rose  her  height, 
and  said  : 

“We  give  you  welcome : not  with- 
out redound 

Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye 
come, 

The  first-fruits  of  the  stranger : after- 
time, 

And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round 
the  grave, 

Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with 
me. 

What ! are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so 
tall  ? ” 

“We  of  the  court  ” said  Cyril.  “ From 
the  court  ” 

She  answer’d,  “then  ye  know  the 
Prince  ? ” and  he  : 

“ The  climax  of  his  age  ! as  tho'  there 
were 

One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  High- 
ness that, 

He  worships  your  ideal : ” she  replied: 

“We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall 
to  hear 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


391 


This  barren  verbiage,  current  among 
men, 

Light  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compli- 
ment. 

Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless 
wilds  would  seem 

As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of 
power ; 

Your  language  proves  you  still  the 
child.  Indeed, 

We  dream  not  of  him : when  we  set 
our  hand 

To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with 
ourself 

Never  to  wed.  You  likewise  will  do 
well, 

Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and 
fling 

The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of 
men,  that  so, 

Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 

You  may  with  those  self-styled  our 
lords  ally 

Y~our  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,  scale 
with  scale.” 


At  those  high  words,  we  conscious 
of  ourselves, 

Perused  the  matting ; then  an  officer 

Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such 
as  these : 

Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with 
home ; 

Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liber- 
ties ; 

Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any 
men ; 

And  many  more,  which  hastily  sub- 
scribed, 

We  enter’d  on  the  boards  : and  “ Now,” 
she  cried, 

“ Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not. 
Look,  our  hall ! 

Our  statues  ! — not  of  those  that  men 
desire, 

Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode, 

Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East; 
but  she 

That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule, 
and  she 

The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 

The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war, 


The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 
Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyrene 
That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman 
brows 

Of  Agrippina.  Dwell  with  these,  and 
lose 

Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble 
forms 

Makes  noble  thro’  the  sensuous  organ- 
ism 

That  which  is  higher.  O lift  your 
natures  up : 

Embrace  our  aims:  work  out  your 
freedom.  Girls, 

Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a fountain 
seal’d : 

Drink  deep,  until  the  habits  of  the 
slave. 

The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and 
spite 

And  slander,  die.  Better  not  be  at  all 
Than  not  be  noble.  Leave  us:  you 
may  go : 

To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 
The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before ; 
For  they  press  in  from  all  the  prov- 
inces, 

And  fill  the  hive.” 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal:  back  again  we  crost  the 
court 

To  Lady  Psyche’s : as  we  enter’d  in, 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morn< 
ing  doves 

That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the 
thatch, 

A patient  range  of  pupils  ; she  herself 
Erect  behind  a desk  of  satin-wood, 

A quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  fal- 
con-eyed, 

And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she 
look’d, 

Of  twenty  summers.  At  her  left,  a 
child, 

In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a 

Her  maiden  babe,  a double  April 
old, 

Agla'ia  slept.  We  sat:  the  Lady 
glanced : 

Then  Elorian,  but  no  livelier  than  the 
dame 


392 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


That  whisper’d  “Asses’  ears,”  among 
the  sedge, 

“My  sister.”  “Comely,  too,  by  all 
that's  fair," 

Said  Cyril.  “ O hush,  hush ! ” and  she 
began. 

“ This  world  was  once  a fluid  haze 
of  light, 

Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry 
tides, 

And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling 

cast 

The  planets : then  the  monster,  then 
the  man ; 

Tattoo’d  or  woaded,  winter-clad  in 
skins, 

Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing 
down  his  mate ; 

As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and 
here 

Among  the  lowest." 

Thereupon  she  took 

A bird’s-eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious 
past  ; 

Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 

As  emblematic  of  a nobler  age ; 

Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke 
of  those 

That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucu- 
mo ; 

Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Ro- 
man lines 

Of  empire,  and  the  woman’s  state  in 
each, 

How  far  from  just;  till  warming  with 
her  theme 

She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  laws 
Salique 

And  little-footed  China,  touch’d  on 
Mahomet 

With  much  contempt,  and  came  to 
chivalry  : 

When  some  respect,  however  slight, 
was  paid 

To  woman,  superstition  all  awry  : 

However  then  commenced  the  dawn  : 
a beam 

Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a 
land 

Of  promise;  fruit  would  follow.  Deep, 
indeed. 


Iheir  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first 
had  dared 

To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and 
assert 

None  lordlier  than  themselves  but 
that  which  made 

Woman  and  man.  She  had  founded; 
they  must  build. 

Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men 
were  taught; 

Let  them  not  fear:  some  said  their 
heads  were  less : 

Some  men’s  were  small  ; not  they  the 
least  of  men ; 

For  often  fineness  compensated  size: 
Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand, 
and  grew 

With  using ; thence  the  man’s,  if  more 
was  more ; 

He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to 
be 

First  in  the  field:  some  ages  had  been 
lost  ; 

But  woman  ripen’d  earlier,  and  her 
life 

Was  longer;  and  albeit  their  glorious 
names 

Were  fewer,  scatter’d  stars,  yet  since 
in  truth 

The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 
And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 
Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of 
the  glebe, 

But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam  ; even  so 
With  woman:  and  in  arts  of  govern- 
ment 

Elizabeth  and  others ; arts  of  war 
The  peasant  Joan  and  others  ; arts  of 
grace 

Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man  ; 
And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left 
her  place, 

And  bow’d  her  state  to  them,  that  they 
might  grow 

To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 
In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from 
the  blight 

Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn. 

At  last 

She  rose  upon  a wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future  ; “ everywhere 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


393 


Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the 
hearth, 

Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the 
world, 

Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life, 

Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound 
the  abyss 

Of  s^ence,  and  the  secrets  of  the 
mind : 

Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  critic, 
more  : 

And  everywhere  the  broad  and  boun- 
teous Earth 

Should  bear  a double  growth  of  those 
rare  souls, 

Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the 
blood  of  the  world.” 


She  ended  here,  and  beckon’d  us : 
the  rest 

Parted  ; and,  glowing  full-faced  wel- 
come, she 

Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving 
on 

In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a boat 

Tacks,  and  the  slacken’d  sail  flaps, 
all  her  voice 

Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat, 
she  cried 

“My  brother!”  “Well,  my  sister.” 
“ O,”  she  said, 

“ What  do  you  here  ? and  in  this 
dress  ? and  these  ? 

Why  who  are  these  ? a wolf  within 
the  fold ! 

A pack  of  wolves  ! the  Lord  be  gra- 
cious to  me ! 

A plot,  a plot,  a plot,  to  ruin  all ! ” 

“No  plot,  no  plot,”  he  answer’d. 
“ Wretched  boy, 

How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on 
the  gate, 

Let  no  man  enter  in  on  pain  of 

DEATH  ? ” 

“ And  if  I had,”  he  answer’d,  “ who 
could  think 

The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 

O sister,  Sirens  tho’  they  be,  were 
such 

As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of 
men  ? ” 


“But  you  will  find  it  otherwise  ” she 
said. 

“You  jest : ill  jesting  with  edge-tools  ! 
my  vow 

Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O that  iron 
will, 

That  axeiike  edge  unturnable,  our 
Head, 

The  Princess.”  “ Well  then,  Psyche, 
take  my  life, 

And  nail  me  like  a weasel  on  a grange 

For  warning:  bury  me  beside  the 
gate, 

And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones  ; 

Here  lies  a brother  by  a sister  slain , 

All  for  the  common  good  of  womankind.” 

“ Let  me  die  too,”  said  Cyril,  “ having 
seen 

Am.  heard  the  Lady  Psyche.” 

I struck  in : 

“ Albeit  so  mask’d,  Madam,  I love  the 
truth ; 

Receive  it;  and  in  me  behold  the 
Prince 

Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 

To  the  Lady  Ida : here,  for  here  she 
was, 

And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left)  I 
came.” 

“ 0 Sir,  O Prince,  I have  no  country ; 
none ; 

If  any,  this ; but  none.  Whate’er  I 
was 

Disrooted,  what  I am  is  grafted  here. 

Affianced,  Sir  ? love-whispers  may 
not  breathe 

Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how 
should  I, 

Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live : the 
thunder-bolt 

Hangs  silent ; but  prepare  : I speak  ; 
it  falls.” 

“ Yet  pause,”  I said  : “ for  that  in- 
scription there, 

I think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein. 

Than  in  a clapper  clapping  in  a garth, 

To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit : if  more 
there  be, 

If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows  ? 
war ; 

Your  own  work  marr’d  : for  this  youi 
Academe, 


;94 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  hal- 
loo 

Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and 
pass 

With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to 
gild 

A stormless  summer.”  “ Let  the 
Princess  judge 

Of  that  ” she  said  : “ farewell,  Sir  — 
and  to  you. 

I shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I go.” 

“ Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,”  I re- 
join’d, 

“ The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Flo- 
rian, 

Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father’s 
hall 

(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle 
brow 

Sun-shaded  in  the  beat  of  dusty  fights) 

As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  when  he 
fell, 

And  all  else  fled  : we  point  to  it,  and 
we  say, 

The  loyal  warmth  of  Plorian  is  not 
cold, 

But  branches  current  yet  in  kindred 
veins.” 

“ Are  you  that  Psyche,”  Florian  add- 
ed : “she 

With  whom  I sang  about  the  morning 
hills, 

Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the 
purple  fly, 

And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen  ? 
are  you 

That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throb- 
bing brow, 

To  smoothe  my  pillow,  mix  the  foam- 
ing draught 

Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and 
read 

My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams  ? 
are  you 

That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in 
one  ? 

You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are 
you  now  ? ” 

“ You  are  that  Psyche,”  Cyril  said, 
“ for  whom 

I would  be  that  for  ever  which  I seem, 


W oman,  if  I might  sit  beside  your  feet, 
And  glean  your  scatter’d  sapience.” 

Then  once  more, 
“ Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,”  I began, 
“ That  on  her  bridal  morn  before  she 
past 

From  all  her  old  companions,  when 
the  king 

Kiss’d  her  pale  cheek,  declared  that 
ancient  ties 

Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  south' 
ern  hills ; 

That  were  there  any  of  our  people 
there 

In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them  ? look ! for  such  are 
these  and  I.” 

“ Are  you  that  Psyche.”  Florian  ask’d, 
“ to  whom, 

In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded 
fawn 

Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  the 
well  ? 

The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your 
lap, 

And  sobb’d,  and  you  sobb’d  with  it, 
and  the  blood 

Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you 
wept. 

That  was  fawn’s  blood,  not  brother’s, 
yet  you  wept. 

O by  the  bright  head  of  my  little 
niece, 

You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are 
you  now  ? ” 

“You  are  that  Psyche,”  Cyril  said 
again, 

“ The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little 
maid, 

That  ever  crow’d  for  kisses.” 

“ Out  upon  it ! ” 
She  answer’d,  “ peace ! and  why  should 
I not  play 

The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  J unius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 
Him  you  call  great : he  for  the  com- 
mon weal, 

The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 
As  I might  slay  this  child,  if  good 
need  were, 

Slew  both  his  sons : and  I,  shall  I,  on 
whom 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


395 


The  secular  emancipation  turns 

Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from 
right  to  save 

A prince,  a brother?  a little  will  I 
yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well 
for  you. 

0 hai*d,  when  love  and  duty  clash  ! I 
fear 

My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleck- 
less ; yet  — 

Hear  my  conditions:  promise  (other- 
wise 

You  perish)  as  you  came,  to  slip  away 

To-day,  to-morrow,  soon:  it  shall  be 
said, 

These  women  were  too  barbarous, 
would  not  learn  ; 

They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed 
us : promise,  all.” 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised 
each ; and  she, 

Like  some  wild,  creature  newly-caged, 
commenced 

A to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 

By  Florian ; holding  out  her  lily 
arms 

Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling 
faintly  said : 

“ I knew  you  at  the  first : tho’  you 
have  grown 

You  scarce  have  alter’d  : I am  sad  and 
glad 

To  see  you,  Florian.  /give  thee  to 
death, 

My  brother  ! it  was  duty  spoke,  not  I. 

My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon 
it. 

Our  mother,  is  she  well  ? ” 

With  that  she  kiss’d 

His  forehead,  then,  a moment  after, 
clung 

About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blos- 
som’d up 

From  out  a common  vein  of  memory 

Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of 
the  hearth, 

And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious 
dews 

Began  to  glisten  and  to  fall : and 
while 


They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came 
a voice, 

“ I brought  a message  here  from  Lady 
Blanche.” 

Back  started  she,  and  turning  round 
we  saw 

The  Lady  Blanche’s  daughter  where 
she  stood, 

Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock, 

A rosy  blonde,  and  in  a college  gown, 

That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 

(Her  mother’s  color)  with  her  lips 
apart, 

And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within 
her  eyes, 

As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and 
float 

In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning 

seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at 
the  door. 

Then  Lady  Psyche,  “ Ah  — Melissa  — 
you! 

You  heard  us?”  and  Melissa,  “O 
pardon  me 

I heard,  I could  not  help  it,  did  not 
wish : 

But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me 
not, 

Nor  think  I bear  that  heart  within  my 
breast, 

To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen 
death.” 

“I  trust  you/'’  said  the  other,  "for 
we  two 

Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm 
and  vine : 

But  yet  your  mother’s  jealous  tem- 
perament — 

Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest, 
drowse,  or  prove 

The  Dana'id  of  a leaky  vase,  for  fear 

This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I lose 

My  honor,  these  their  lives.”  "Ah, 
fear  me  not” 

Eeplied  Melissa ; “ no  — I would  not 
tell, 

No,  not  for  all  Aspasia’s  cleverness, 

No,  not  to  answer,  Madam,  all  those 
hard  things 

That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon  * 


396 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


“ Be  it  so  ” the  other,  “ that  we  still 
may  lead 

The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in 
peace, 

For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet.” 

Said  Cyril,  “ Madam,  he  the  wisest 
man 

Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in 
halls 

Of  Lebanonian  cedar : nor  should  you 

(Tho’  Madam  you  should  answer,  we 
would  ask) 

Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you 
came 

Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you, 

Myself  for  something  more.”  He  said 
not  what, 

But  “ Thanks,”  she  answer’d  “ Go  : 
we  have  been  too  long 

Together  : keep  your  hoods  about  the 
face ; 

They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction 
here. 

Speak  little ; mix  not  with  the  rest ; 
and  hold 

Your  promise:  all,  I trust,  may  yet 
be  well.” 

We  turn’d  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the 
child, 

And  held  her  round  the  knees  against 
his  waist, 

And  blew  the  swoll’n  cheek  of  a 
trumpeter, 

While  Psyche  watch’d  them,  smiling, 
and  the  child 

Push’d  her  flat  hand  against  his  face 
and  laugh’d  ; 

And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  stroll’d 

For  half  the  day  thro’  stately  theatres 

Bench’d  crescent-wise.  In  each  we 
sat,  we  heard 

The  grave  Professor.  On  the  lecture 
slate 

The  circle  rounded  under  female 
hands 

With  flawless  demonstration  : follow’d 
then 

A classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment, 

With  scraps  of  thundrous  Epic  lilted 
out 


By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 

And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  fU^,. 
words-long 

That  on  the  stretch’d  forefinger  of  all 
Time 

Sparkle  for  ever : then  we  dipt  in  all 

That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state, 

The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 

The  morals,  something  of  the  frame, 
the  rock, 

The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell, 
the  flower, 

Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 

And  whatsoever  can  be  taught  and 
known ; 

Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken 
fence, 

And  glutted  all  night  long  breast- 
deep  in  corn, 

We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge, 
and  I spoke : 

“ Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well 
as  we.” 

“They  hunt  old  trails,”  said  Cyril, 
“ very  well ; 

But  when  cTid  woman  ever  yet  in- 
vent ? 

“ Ungracious  ! ” answer’d  Florian  ; 
“ have  you  learnt 

No  more  from  Psyche’s  lecture,  you 
that  talk’d 

The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and 
almost  sad  ? ” 

“ 0 trash,”  he  said,  “ but  with  a ker- 
nel in  it. 

Should  I not  call  her  wise,  who  made 
me  wise  ? 

And  learnt  ? I learnt  more  from  her 
in  a flash, 

Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty 
hull, 

And  every  Muse  tumbled  a science  in. 

A thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these 
halls, 

And  round  these  halls  a thousand 
baby  loves 

Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  at  the 
hearts, 

Whence  follows  many  a vacant  pang; 
but  O 

With  me,  Sir,  enter’d  in  the  bigger 
boy. 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


397 


Che  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted 
firm, 

Fhe  long-limb’d  lad  that  had  a Psyche 
too ; 

le  cleft  me  thro’  the  stomacher ; and 
now 

AHiat  think  you  of  it,  Florian  ? do  I 
chase 

Hie  substance  or  the  shadow  ? will  it 
.hold  ? 

have  no  sorcerer’s  malison  on  me, 

^o  ghostly  hauntings  like  his  High- 
ness. I 

Hatter  myself  that  always  every- 
where 

! know  the  substance  when  I see  it. 
Well, 

Vre  castles  shadows  ? Three  of  them  7 
Is  she 

fhe  sweet  proprietress  a shadow  ? If 
not, 

Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my 
tatter’d  coat  ? 

?or  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my 
wants, 

ind  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart, 

ind  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double 
worth, 

ind  much  I might  have  said,  but  that 
my  zone 

Jnmann’d  me : then  the  Doctors  ! O 
to  hear 

The  Doctors  ! 0 to  watch  the  thirsty 

plants 

'imbibing ! once  or  twice  I thought  to 
roar, 

To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my 
mane  : but  thou, 

Modulate  me,  Soul  of  mincing  mim- 
icry ! 

Vlake  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon, 
my  throat ; 

\.base  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to 
meet 

Star-sisters  answering  under  crescent 
brows  ; 

Ibate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of 
man,  and  loose 

V flying  charm  of  blushes  o’er  this 
cheek, 

*Vhere  they  like  swallows  coming  out 
of  time 


Will  wonder  why  they  came:  but 
hark  the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  ! ” 

And  in  we  stream’d 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and 
still 

By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end 
to  end 

With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown 
and  fair 

In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist, 
The  long  hall  glitter’d  like  a bed  of 
flowers. 

How  might  a man  not  wander  from 
his  wits 

Pierced  thro’  with  eyes,  but  that  1 
kept  mine  own 

Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in  glorioui 
dreams, 

The  second-sight  of  some  Astraean  age, 
Sat  compass’d  with  professors : they, 
the  while, 

Discuss’d  a doubt  and  tost  it  to  and 
fro : 

A clamor  thicken’d,  mixt  with  inmost 
terms 

Of  art  and  science:  Lady  Blanche 
alone 

Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  linea- 
ments, 

With  all  her  autumn  tresses  falsely 
brown, 

Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens : 
there 

One  walk’d  reciting  by  herself,  and 
one 

In  this  hand  held  a volume  as  to  read, 
And  smoothed  a petted  peacock  down 
with  that : 

Some  to  a low  song  oar’d  a shallop  by, 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow’d  from  the  heat : some 
hid  and  sought 

In  the  orange  thickets : others  tos*  a 
ball 

Above  the  fountain-jets,  and  back 
again 

With  laughter : others  lay  about  the 
lawns, 


398 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY . 


Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur’d  that 
their  May 

Was  passing:  what  was  learning  unto 
them  ? 

They  wish’d  to  marry;  they  could 
rule  a house  ; 

Men  hated  learned  women : but  we 
three 

Sat  muffled  like  the  Tates ; and  often 
came 

Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 

Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity, 

That  harm’d  not : then  day  droopt ; 
the  chapel  bells 

Call’d  us : we  left  the  walks ; we  mixt 
with  those 

Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest 
white, 

Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall 
to  wall. 

While  the  great  organ  almost  burst 
his  pipes, 

Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro’ 
the  court 

A long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 

Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies. 

The  work  of  Ida,  to  call  down  from 
Heaven 

A blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world, 
in. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 

Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 

Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 

Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 
Blow  him  again  to  me; 

While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 

Best,  rest,  on  mother’s  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 

Morn  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morn- 
ing star 

Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into 
gold. 


We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with 

care 

Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three 
parts 

In  shadow,  but  the  Muses’  heads  were 
touch’d 

Above  the  darkness  from  their  native 
East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount, 
and  watch’d 

Or  seem’d  to  watch  the  dancing  bub- 
ble, approach’d 

Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of 

sleep, 

Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy 

' eyes 

The  circled  Iris  of  a night  of  tears ; 
“And  fly,”  she  cried,  uO  fly,  while 
yet  you  may ! 

My  mother  knows : ” and  when  I 
ask’d  her  “ how,” 

“My  fault,”  she  wept,  “my  fault ! and 
yet  not  mine ; 

Yet  mine  in  part.  0 hear  me,  pardon 
me. 

My  mother,  Tis  her  wont  from  night 
to  night 

To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 
She  says  the  Princess  should  have 
been  the  Head, 

Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two 
arms ; 

And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they 
came ; 

But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand 

now, 

And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom 

used ; 

Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all 

the  love. 

And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass  j 
you: 

Her  countrywomen  ! she  did  not  envy 
her. 

‘ Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians  ? 
Girls  ? — more  like  men  ! ’ and  at  these 
words  the  snake, 

My  secret,  seem’d  to  stir  within  my 
breast ; 

And  oh,  Sirs,  could  I help  it,  but  my 
cheek 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


399 


Began  to  burn  and  burn,  and  her  lynx 
eye 

To  fix  and  make  me  hotter,  till  she 
laugh’d : 

j‘0  marvellously  modest  maiden,  you! 

Men!  girls,  like  men!  why,  if  they 
had  been  men 

| You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in 
rubric  thus 

For  wholesale  comment/  Pardon,  I 
am  shamed 

I That  I must  needs  repeat  for  my 
excuse 

What  looks  so  little  graceful : ‘ men ’ 
(for  still 

My  mother  went  revolving  on  the 
word) 

rAnd  so  they  are,  — very  like  men 
indeed  — 

-And  with  that  woman  closeted  for 
hours ! * 

Then  came  these  dreadful  words  out 
one  by  one, 

‘ Why  — these  — are  — men  :1 * * * * * * *  9 I shud- 
der’d : ‘ and  you  know  it/ 

‘O  ask  me  nothing/  I said:  ‘And 
she  knows  too, 

And  she  conceals  it/  So  my  mother 
clutch’d 

The  truth  at  once,  but  with.no  word 
from  me  ; 

And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to 
inform 

The  Princess : Lady  Psyche  will  be 
crush’d ; 

But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  there- 
fore fly : 

But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  you 
go.” 

1 “ What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a 

blush  T" 

♦ Said  Cyril : “ Pale  one,  blush  again  : 
than  wear 

Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives 
away. 

Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more 

in  Heaven” 

He  added,  “ lest  some  classic  Angel 
speak 

in  scorn  of  us,  ‘ They  mounted,  Gany- 

medes, 


| To  tumble,  V ulcans,  on  the  second 
morn/ 

But  I will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 

To  yield  us  farther  furlough : ” and  he 
went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls, 
and  thought 

He  scarce  would  prosper.  “ Tell  us,” 
Fiorian  ask’d, 

“How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the 
right  and  left.” 

“ 0 long  ago,”  she  said,  “ betwixt  these 
two  » 

Division  smoulders  hidden;  ’tis  my 
mother, 

Too  jealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 

Pent  in  a crevice  : much  I bear  with 
her  : 

I never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 

(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a 
fool ; 

And  still  she  rail’d  against  the  state 
of  things. 

She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida’s  youth, 

And  from  the  Queen’s  decease  she 
brought  her  up. 

But  when  your  sister  came  she  won 
the  heart 

Of  Ida  : they  were  still  together,  grew 

(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inoscu- 
lated ; 

Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one 
note ; 

One  mind  in  all  things  : yet  my  mother 
still 

Affirms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  the- 
ories, 

And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil’s 
love  : 

She  calls  her  plagiarist;  I know  not 
what : 

But  I must  go  : I dare  not  tarry,”  and 
light, 

As  flies  the  shadow  of  a bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmur’d  Fiorian  gazing  after 
her, 

“An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and 
pure. 

If  I could  love,  why  this  were  she 
how  pretty 


400 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY . 


Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush’d 
again, 

As  if  to  close  with  Cyril’s  random 
wish : 

Not  like  your  Princess  cramm’d  with 
erring  pride, 

Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags 
in  tow.” 

“ The  crane,”  I said,  “ may  chatter 
of  the  crane, 

The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove, 
but  I 

An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 

My  princess,  O my  princess  ! true  she 
errs, 

But  in  her  own  grand  way  : being  her- 
self 

Three  times  more  noble  than  three 
score  of  men, 

She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else, 

And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a 
crown 

To  blind  the  truth  and  me : for  her, 
and  her, 

Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 

The  nectar ; but  — ah  she  — whene’er 
she  moves 

The  Samian  Here  rises  and  she  speaks 

A Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning 
Sun.” 

So  saying  from  the  court  we  paced, 
and  gain’d 

The  terrace  ranged  along  the  North- 
ern front, 

And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters, 
high 

Above  the  empurpled  champaign, 
drank  the  gale 

That  blown  about  the  foliage  under- 
neath, 

And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 

Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.  Hither 
came 

Cyril,  and  yawning  “ O hard  task,” 
he  cried; 

“ No  fighting  shadows  here  ! I forced 
a way 

Thro’  solid  opposition  crabb’d  and 
gnarl’d. 


Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave 
and  thump 

A league  of  street  in  summer  solstice 
down, 

Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentle- 
woman. 

I knock’d  and,  bidden,  enter’d  ; found 
her  there 

At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her 
eyes 

The  green  malignant  light  of  coming 
storm. 

Sir,  I was  courteous,  every  phrase 
well-oil’d, 

As  man’s  could  be ; yet  maiden-meek 
I pray’d 

Concealment:  she  demanded  who  we 
were, 

And  why  we  came  1 I fabled  nothing 
fair, 

But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 

Up  went  the  hush’d  amaze  of  hand 
and  eye. 

But  when  I dwelt  upon  your  old  affi- 
ance, 

She  answer’d  sharply  that  I talk’d 
astray. 

I urged  the  fierce  inscription  on  the 
gate, 

And  our  three  lives.  True  — we  had 
limed  ourselves 

With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take 
the  chance. 

But  such  extremes,  I told  her,  well 
might  harm 

The  woman’s  cause.  ‘ Not  more  than 
now,’  she  said, 

‘ So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favoritism.’ 

I tried  the  mother’s  heart.  Shame 
might  befall 

Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she 
knew : 

Her  answer  was  ‘ Leave  me  to  deal 
with  that.’ 

I spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many 
deaths, 

And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to 
speak, 

And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 

I grew  discouraged,  Sir ; but  since  1 
knew 

No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a little  wave 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY \ 


401 


day  beat  admission  in  a thousand 
years, 

recommenced ; ‘ Decide  not  ere  you 
pause. 

find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place, 

tome  say  the  third  — the  authentic 
foundress  you. 

offer  boldly  : we  will  seat  you  high- 
est : 

Vink  at  our  advent : help  my  prince 
to  gain 

lis  rightful  bride,  and  here  I promise 
you 

tome  palace  in  our  land,  where  you 
shall  reign 

the  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she- 
world, 

^nd  your  great  name  flow  on  with 
broadening  time 

tor  ever/  Well,  she  balanced  this  a 
little, 

Ind  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to- 
day, 

Meantime  be  mute : thus  much,  nor 
more  I gain’d.” 

He  ceasing,  came  a message  from 
the  Head. 

That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to 
take 

^he  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 

Vould  we  go  with  her  ? we  should  find 
the  land 

Vtorth  seeing;  and  the  river  made  a 
fall 

>ut  yonder:”  then  she  pointed  on  to 
where 

l double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 

leyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of 
the  vale. 


Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro’ 
all 

;s  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed 
hour. 

hen  summon’d  to  the  porch  we  went. 
She  stood 

mong  her  maidens,  higher  by  the 
head, 

er  back  against  a pillar,  her  foot  on 
one 


Of  those  tame  leopards.  Kittenlike 
he  roll’d 

And  paw’d  about  her  sandal.  I drew 
near ; 

I gazed.  On  a sudden  my  strange 
seizure  came 

Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  our 
house : 

The  Princess  Ida  seem’d  a hollow 
show, 

Her  gay-furr’d  cats  a painted  fantasy, 

Her  college  and  her  maidens,  empty 
masks, 

And  I myself  the  shadow  of  a dream, 

For  all  things  were  and  were  not.  Yet 
I felt 

My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and 
with  awe ; 

Then  from  my  breast  the  involuntary 
sigh 

Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light 
of  eyes 

That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and 
shook 

My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 

Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following 
up 

The  river  as  it  narrow’d  to  the  hills. 

I rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she 
said : 

“ 0 friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem’d 
us  not 

Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yester- 
morn ; 

Unwillingly  we  spake.”  “No  — not 
to  her,” 

I answer’d,  “ but  to  one  of  whom  we 
spake 

Your  Highness  might  have  seem’d  the 
thing  you  say.” 

“ Again  ? ” she  cried,  “ are  you  am- 
bassadresses 

From  him  to  me  ? we  give  you,  being 
strange, 

A license  : speak,  and  let  the  topic 
die.” 

I stammer’d  that  I knew  him  — 
could  have  wish’d  — 

“Our  king  expects — was  there  no 
precontract  ? 


402 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


There  is  no  truer-hearted  — ah,  you 
seem 

All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 

The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  but 
long’d 

To  follow:  surely,  if  your  Highness 
keep 

Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev’n 
to  death, 

Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair.” 

“ Poor  boy,”  she  said,  “ can  he  not 
read  — no  books  \ 

Quoit,  tennis,  ball  — no  games  ? nor 
deals  in  that 

Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exer- 
cise ? 

To  nurse  a blind  ideal  like  a girl, 

Methinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a 
girl; 

As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have 
been  : 

We  had  our  dreams;  perhaps  he  mixt 
with  them : 

We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun 
to  do  it, 

Being  other  — since  we  learnt  our 
meaning  here, 

To  lift  the  woman’s  fall’n  divinity 

Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man.” 

She  paused,  and  added  with  a 
haughtier  smile 

* And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my 
friend, 

At  no  man’s  beck,  but  know  ourself 
and  thee, 

0 Vashti,  noble  Yashti!  Summon’d 

out 

She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the 
drunken  king 

To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the 
palms.” 

“ Alas  your  Highness  breathes  full 
East,”  I said, 

“ On  that  which  leans  to  you.  I know 
the  Prince, 

1 prize  his  truth : and  then  how  vast 

a work 

To  assail  this  gray  preeminence  of 
man! 


You  grant  me  license ; might  I use  it 
think ; 

Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  lit 
may  fail ; 

Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  yor 
plan, 

And  takes  and  ruins  all ; and  thi 
your  pains 

May  only  make  that  footprint  upo 
sand 

Which  old-recurring  waves  of  preji 
dice 

Resmooth  to  nothing : might  I drea 
that  you, 

With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  yoi 
great  deeds 

For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  ai 
miss, 

Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  coun 
her  due, 

Love,  children,  happiness  ? ” 

And  she  exclaim’ 

“Peace,  you  young  savage  of  tl 
Northern  wild ! 

What ! tho’  your  Prince’s  love  we: 
like  a God’s, 

Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sac: 
fice  ? 

You  are  bold  indeed : we  are  n 
talk’d  to  thus: 

Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  wou 
they  grew 

Like  field-flowers  everywhere  ! we  lil 
them  well : 

But  children  die  ; and  let  me  tell  yo 

girl,  | 

Howe’er  you  babble,  great  deeds  caj 
not  die ; 

They  with  the  sun  and  moon  rene 
their  light 

For  ever,  blessing  those  that  look  c 
them. 

Children  — that  men  may  pluck  thei 
from  our  hearts, 

Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  ou 
selves  — 

0 — children  — there  is  nothing  upc 
earth 

More  miserable  than  she  that  has 
son 

And  sees  him  err  : nor  would  we  woi 
for  fame ; 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


403 


rho’  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  ap- 
plause of  Great, 

WTio  learns  the  one  pou  sto  whence 
after-hands 

May  move  the  world,  tho’  she  herself 
effect 

3ut  little  : wherefore  up  and  act,  nor 
shrink 

?or  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 
3y  frail  successors.  Would,  indeed, 
we  had  been, 

n lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a race 
)f  giants  living,  each,  a thousand 
years, 

That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out, 
and  watch 

fhe  sandy  footprint  harden  into 
stone.” 

I answer’d  nothing,  doubtful  in 
myself 

f that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her 
grand 

maginations  might  at  all  be  won. 

^nd  she  broke  out  interpreting  my 
thoughts : 

“ No  doubt  we  seem  a kind  of 
monster  to  you ; 

"Ve  are  used  to  that : for  women,  up 
till  this 

'ramp’d  under  worse  than  South-sea 
isle  taboo, 

)warfs  of  the  gynasceum,  fail  so  far 
n high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot 
guess 

low  much  their  welfare  is  a passion 
to  us. 

f we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker 
proof  — 

>h  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
!y  slow  approaches,  than  by  single 
act 

>f  immolation,  any  phase  of  death, 
Ve  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against 
the  pikes, 

'r  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it, 
K'o  compass  our  dear  sisters’  lib- 
erties.” 

m - 

She  bow’d  as  if  to  vail  a noble 
tear; 


And  up  we  came  to  where  the  river 
sloped 

To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on 
black  blocks 

A breadth  of  thunder.  O’er  it  shook 
the  woods, 

And  dance^i  the  color,  and,  below, 
stuck  out 

The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that 
lived  and  roar’d 

Before  man  was.  She  gazed  awhile 
and  said, 

“ As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  we  to 
her 

That  will  be.”  “ Dare  we  dream  of 
that,”  I ask’d, 

“ Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman 
and  his  work, 

That  practice  betters  ? ” “ How,”  she 
cried,  “ you  love 

The  metaphysics ! read  and  earn 
our  prize, 

A golden  brooch  : beneath  an  emerald 
plane 

Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 

Of  hemlock  ; our  device  ; wrought  to 
the  life ; 

She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her  : 

For  there  are  schools  for  all.”  “And 
yet  ” I said 

“ Methinks  I have  not  found  among 
them  all 

One  anatomic.”  “Nay,  we  thought 
of  that,” 

She  answer’d,  “but  it  pleased  us  not : 
in  truth 

We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids 
should  ape 

Those  monstrous  males  that  carve 
the  living  hound, 

And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of 
the  grave, 

Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human 
heart, 

And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 

Dabbling  a shameless  hand  with 
shameful  jest, 

Encarnalize  their  spirits:  yet  we 
know 

Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this 
matter  hangs  : 

Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty, 


404 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY . 


Nor  willing  men  should  come  among 
us,  learnt, 

For  many  weary  moons  before  we 
came, 

This  craft  of  healing.  Were  you 
sick,  ourself 

Would  tend  upon  you.,  To  your 
question  now, 

Which  touches  on  the  workman  and 
his  work. 

Let  there  be  light  and  there  was 
light : ’tis  so  : 

For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but 
is; 

And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 

The  birth  of  light:  but  we  that  are 
not  all, 

As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this, 
now  that, 

And  live,  perforce,  from  thought  to 
thought,  and  make 

One  act  a phantom  of  succession : 
thus 

Our  weakness  somehow  shapes  the 
shadow,  Time ; 

But  in  the  shadow  will  we  work,  and 
mould 

The  woman  to  the  fuller  day.” 

She  spake 

With  kindled  eyes  : we  rode  a league 
beyond, 

And,  o’er  a bridge  of  pinewood  cross- 
ing, came 

On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag, 

Full  of  all  beauty.  “ O how  sweet  ” 
I said 

(For  I was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask) 

“To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved 
us.”  “ Yea,” 

She  answer’d,  “or  with  fair  philoso- 
phies 

That  lift  the  fancy ; for  indeed  these 
fields 

Are  lovely,  lovelier  not  the  Elysian 
lawns, 

Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old, 
and  saw 

The  soft  white  vapor  streak  the 
crowned  towers 

Built  to  the  Sun : ” then,  turning  to 
her  maids, 


“Pitch  our  pavilion  here  upon  th< 
sward ; 

Lay  out  the  viands.”  At  the  word 
they  raised 

A tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna’s  triumph ; her< 
she  stood, 

Engirt  with  many  a florid  maiden 
cheek, 

The  woman  conqueror;  woman-con 
quer’d  there 

The  bearded  Victor  of  ten-thousanc 
hymns, 

And  all  the  men  mourn’d  at  his  side 
but  we 

Set  forth  to  climb ; then,  climbing 
Cyril  kept 

With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian, 
With  mine  affianced.  Many  a littl 
hand 

Glanced  like  a touch  of  sunshine  oi 
the  rocks, 

Many  a light  foot  shone  like  a jewt 
set 

In  the  dark  crag : and  then  we  turn’d 
we  wound 

About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  ir 
Hammering  and  clinking,  chatterin; 
stony  names 

Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  am 
trap  and  tuff, 

Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Su 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  am 
fell,  and  all 

The  rosy,  heights  came  out  above  th 
lawns. 

IV. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  dying 
Blow,  bugle  ; answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying 
dying. 

O hark,  O hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 

O sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying 
Blow,  bugle. ; answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying 
dying. 

O love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


405 


And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

“ There  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we 
call  the  Sun, 

If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound.” 
Said  Ida ; “ let  us  down  and  rest ; ” 
and  we 

Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled 
precipices, 

By  every  coppice-feather’d  chasm  and 
cleft, 

Dropt  thro’  the  ambrosial  gloom  to 
where  below 

No  bigger  than  a glow-worm  shone 
the  tent 

Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.  Once  she 
lean’d  on  me, 

Descending;  once  or  twice  she  lent 
her  hand, 

Amd  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood, 
Stirring  a sudden  transport  rose  and 
fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet, 
and  dipt 

Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enters  in, 
There  leaning  deep  in  broider’d  down 
we  sank 

Our  elbows  : on  a tripod  in  the  midst 
A fragrant  flame  rose,  and  before  us 
glow’d 

iTruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine, 
and  gold. 

Then  she,  “ Let  some  one  sing  to 
us : lightlier  move 

The  minutes  fledged  with  music : ” 
and  a maid, 

j )f  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp, 
and  sang. 

“ Tears,  idle  tears,  I know  not  what  they 
mean, 

^ears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Oise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
n looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
md  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“ Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a sail, 
'hat  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world, 

ad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 


That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“ Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 
dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken’d  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a glimmering 
square; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“ Dear  as  remember’d  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign’d 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 

O Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more.” 

She  ended  with  such  passion  that 
the  tear, 

She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring 
pearl 

Lost  in  her  bosom  : but  with  some 
disdain 

Answer’d  the  Princess,  “If  indeed 
there  haunt 

About  the  moulder’d  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a voice  and  vague,  fatal  to 
men, 

Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears 
with  wool 

And  so  pace  by  : but  thine  are  fancies 
hatch’d 

In  silken-folded  idleness  ; nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a true  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones 
be, 

While  down  the  streams  that  float  us 
each  and  all 

To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering 
bergs  of  ice, 

Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on 
the  waste 

Becomes  a cloud : for  all  things  serve 
their  time 

Toward  that  great  year  of  equal 
mights  and  rights, 

Nor  would  I fight  with  iron  laws,  in 
the  end 

Found  golden : let  the  past  be  past ; 
let  be 

Their  cancell’d  Babels : tho’  the  rough 
kex  break 

The  starr’d  mosaic,  and  the  beard- 
blown  goat 

Hang  on  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  fig- 
tree  split 


406 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while 
we  hear 

A trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a poising  eagle, 
burns 

Above  the  unrisen  morrow  : ” then  to 
me ; 

“ Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land,” 

she  said, 

“ Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retro- 
spect. 

But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and 
the  hues 

Of  promise ; not  a death’s-head  at  the 
wine  .” 

Then  I remember’d  one  myself  had 
made, 

What  time  I watch’d  the  swallow 
winging  south 

From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long 
since,  and  part 

Now  while  I sang,  and  maidenlike  as 
far 

As  I could  ape  their  treble,  did  I sing. 

“ O Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I tell  to  thee. 

“Otell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest 
each, 

That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

“ O Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I could  follow, 
and  light 

Upon  her  lattice,  I would  pipe  and  trill, 

And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

“ O were  I thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I died. 

“ Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart 
with  love, 

Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are 
green  ? 

“ O tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is 
flown : 

Say  to  her,  I do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

“ O tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 


“ O Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woocb 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  mafa 
her  mine, 

And  tell  her,  tell  her,  tnat  I follow  thee.’’ 

I ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  a 
each, 

Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  oh 
time, 

Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh’< 
with  alien  lips, 

And  knew  not  what  they  meant ; fo 
still  my  voice 

Rang  false : but  smiling  “ Not  fo 
thee,”  she  said, 

“ O Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall  burst  her  veil : marsh-divers 
rather,  maid, 

Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow 
crake 

Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass 
and  this 

A mere  love-poem  ! O for  such,  m 
friend, 

We  hold  them  slight : they  mind  us  c 
the  time 

When  we  made  bricks  in  Egyp 
Knaves  are  men, 

That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tende 
ness, 

And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  u] 
And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Pa: 
adise, 

And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny 
Poor  soul ! I had  a maid  of  honor  once 
She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  sue 
a one, 

A rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 
I loved  her.  Peace  be  with  her.  Sh 
is  dead. 

So  they  blaspheme  the  muse ! Br 
great  is  song 

Used  to  great  ends  : ourself  have  ofte 
tried 

Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rliythi 
have  dash’d 

The  passion  of  the  prophetess ; for  son 
Is  duer  unto  freedom,  force  and  growl 
Of  spirit  than  to  junketing  and  love 
Love  is  it  ? Would  this  same  mod 
love,  and  this 

Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  wintt 
bats. 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


497 


ill  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our 
worth, 

ot  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 
o be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills, 
and  sphered 

fhole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 
Enough! 

ut  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit, 
* you, 

'now  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of 
your  soil, 

hat  gives  the  manners  of  your  coun- 
try-women ? 

She  spoke  and  turn’d  her  sumptu- 
ous head  with  eyes 
f shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine, 
hen  while  I dragg’d  my  brains  for 
such  a song, 

yril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth’d 
glass  had  wrought, 
r master’d  by  the  sense  of  sport,  be- 
gan 

o troll  a careless,  careless  tavern- 
catch 

f Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experi- 
ences 

nmeet  for  ladies.  Florian  nodded 
at  him, 

frowning ; Psyche  flush’d  and  wann’d 
and  shook ; 

he  lilylike  Melissa  droop’d  her  brows ; 
Forbear,”  the  Princess  cried;  “ For- 
bear, Sir,”  I ; 

nd  heated  thro’  and  thro’  with  wrath 
and  love, 

.smote  him  on  the  breast ; he  started 
up; 

here  rose  a shriek  as  of  a city  sack’d  ; 
Melissa  clamor’d  “ Flee  the  death  ; ” 
“ To  horse,” 

rid  Ida  ; “ home  ! to  horse  ! ” and 
fled,  as  flies 

troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the 
dusk, 

rhen  some  one  batters  at  the  dove- 
cote-doors, 

isorderly  the  women.  Alone  I stood 
rith  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at 
heart, 

t the  pavilion  : there  like  parting 
hopes 


I heard  them  passing  from  me : hoof 
by  hoof, 

And  every  hoof  a knell  to  my  desires, 

Clang’d  on  the  bridge ; and  then  an- 
other shriek, 

“ The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  0 
the  Head ! ” 

For  blind  with  rage  she  miss’d  the 
plank,  and  roll’d 

In  the  river.  Out  I sprang  from  glow 
to  gloom  : 

There  whirl’d  her  white  robe  like  a 
blossom’d  branch 

Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall : a glance  I 
gave, 

No  more ; but  woman-vested  as  I was 

Plunged ; and  the  flood  drew ; yet  I 
caught  her ; then 

Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my 
left 

The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half 
the  world, 

Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.  A tree 

Was  half-disrooted  from  his  place  and 
stoop’d 

To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gur- 
gling wave 

Mid-channel.  Right  on  this  we  drove 
and  caught, 

And  grasping  down  the  boughs  I 
gain’d  the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmer- 
ingly  group’d 

In  the  hollow  bank.  One  reaching 
forward  drew 

My  burthen  from  mine  arms ; they 
cried  “ she  lives  : ” 

They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent : but 

I, 

So  much  a kind  of  shame  within  me 
wrought, 

Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening 
eyes, 

Nor  found  my  friends;  but  push’d 
alone  on  foot 

(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I left 
her  mine) 

Across  the  woods,  and  less  from 
Indian  craft 

Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found 
at  length 


408 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


The  garden  portals.  Two  great 
statues,  Art 

And  Science,  Caryatids  lifted  up 

A weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were 
valves 

Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter 
rued 

His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  his 
brows 

Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  there- 
upon 

Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked 
the  gates. 

A little  space  was  left  between  the 
horns, 

Thro’  which  I clamber’d  o’er  at  top 
with  pain, 

Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden 
walks, 

And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed 
from  hue  to  hue, 

,Now  poring  on  the  glowworm,  now 
the  star, 

I paced  the  terrace,  till  the  Bear  had 
wheel’d 

Thro’  a great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 

A step 

Of  lightest  echo,  then  a loftier  form 

Than  female,  moving  thro’  the  uncer- 
tain gloom, 

Disturb’d  me  with  the  doubt  “ if  this 
were  she,” 

But  it  was  Florian.  “ Hist  O Hist,” 
he  said, 

“ They  seek  us : out  so  late  is  out  of 
rules. 

Moreover  1 seize  the  strangers  ’ is  the 
cry. 

How  came  you  here  ? ” I told  him  : 
“ I ” said  he, 

? Last  of  the  train,  a moral  leper,  I, 

’o  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at 
heart,  return’d. 

Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 

With  hooded  brows  I crept  into  the 
hall, 

And,  couch’d  behind  a Judith,  under- 
neath 

The  head  of  Holof ernes  peep’d  and  saw. 

Girl  after  girl  was  call’d  to  trial : each 


Disclaim’d  all  knowledge  of  us : Iasi 
of  all, 

Melissa : trust  me.  Sir,  I pitied  her. 

She,  question’d  if  she  knew  us  men 
at  first 

Was  silent;  closer  prest,  denied  il 
not  : 

And  then,  demanded  if  her  mother 
knew, 

Or  Psyche,  she  affirm’d  not,  or  de- 
nied : 

From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  famil- 
iar with  her, 

Easily  gather’d  either  guilt.  She 
sent 

For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there ; 
she  call’d 

For  Psyche’s  child  to  cast  it  from 
the  doors ; 

She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her 
face  to  face ; 

And  I slipt  out : but  whither  will  you 
now  ? 

And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril  ? both 
are  fled : 

What,  if  together  ? that  were  not  so 
well. 

Would  rather  we  had  never  come  ! ] 
dread 

His  wildness,  and  the  chances  of  the 
dark.” 

“And yet,”  I said,  “you  wrong  him 
more  than  I 

That  struck  him  : this  is  proper  to  the 
clown, 

Tho’  smock’d,  or  furr’d  and  purpled, 
still  the  clown, 

To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him, 
and  to  shame 

That  which  he  says  he  loves : fc  i 
Cyril,  howe’er 

He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night  — tl:*e 
song 

Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn’d  m 
grosser  lips 

Beyond  all  pardon — as  it  is,  I hold 

These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not 
he. 

He  has  a solid  base  of  temperament : 

But  as  the  waterlily  starts  and  slides 

Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


409 


Tho’  anchor'd  to  the  bottom,  such  is 
he.” 

Scarce  had  I ceased  when  from  a 
tamarisk  near 

Two  Proctors  leapt  upon  us,  crying, 

“ Names : ” 

He,  standing  still,  was  clutch'd ; but 
I began 

To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes, 
wind 

And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and 
race 

By  all  the  fountains  : fleet  I was  of 
foot : 

Before  me  shower’d  the  rose  in  flakes  ; 
behind 

I heard  the  puff’d  pursuer;  at  mine 
ear 

Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded 
not, 

And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my 
soul. 

At  last  I hook’d  my  ankle  in  a vine, 

That  claspt  the  feet  of  a Mnemosyne, 

And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught 
and  known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess 
where  she  sat 

High  in  the  hall : above  her  droop'd 
a lamp, 

And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her 
brow 

Burn  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a mast- 
head, 

Prophet  of  storm  : a handmaid  on 
each  side 

Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her 
long  black  hair 

Damp  from  the  river ; and  close  be- 
hind her  stood 

Eight  daughters  of  the  plough, 
stronger  than  men, 

Huge  women  blowzed  with  health, 
and  wind,  and  rain, 

And  labor.  Each  was  like  a Druid 
rock ; 

Or  like  a spire  of  land  that  stands 
apart 

Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail’d  about 
with  mews. 


Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  divid- 
ing clove 

An  advent  to  the  throne ; and  there- 
beside, 

Half-naked  as  if  caught  at  once  from 
bed 

And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth, 
lay 

The  lily-sliining  child;  and  on  the 
left, 

Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up 
from  wrong, 

Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with 
her  sobs, 

Melissa  knelt ; but  Lady  Blanche 
erect 

Stood  up  and  spake,  an  affluent 
orator. 

“ It  was  not  thus,  O Princess,  in  old 
days  : 

You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon 
my  lips  : 

I led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies ; 

I fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every 
Muse ; 

I loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you 
me 

Your  second  mother:  those  were 
gracious  times. 

Then  came  your  new  friend : you 
began  to  change  — 

I saw  it  and  grieved  — to  slacken  and 
to  cool; 

Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 

You  turn'd  your  warmer  currents  all 
to  her, 

To  me  you  froze : this  wras  my  meed 
for  all. 

Yet  I bore  up  in  part  from  ancient 
love, 

And  partly  that  I hoped  to  win  you 
back, 

And  partly  conscious  of  my  own 
deserts, 

And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil 
head, 

And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  some- 
thing  great, 

In  which  I might  your  fellow -worker 
be. 


410 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


When  time  should  serve ; and  thus  a 
noble  scheme 

Grew  up  from  seed  we  two  long  since 
„ had  sown ; 

In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a Jonah’s 
gourd, 

Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden 
sun : 

We  took  this  palace;  but  even  from 
the  first 

You  stood  in  your  own  light  and 
darken’d  mine. 

What  student  came  but  that  you 
planed  her  path 

To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 

A foreigner,  and  I your  country- 
woman, 

I your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new 
in  all  ? 

But  still  her  lists  were  swell’d  and 
mine'  were  lean ; 

Yet  I bore  up  in  hope  she  would  be 
known : 

Then  came  these  wolves : they  knew 
her  : they  endured, 

Long-closeted  with  her  the  yester- 
morn, 

To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she 
to  hear : 

And  me  none  told : not  less  to  an  eye 
like  mine 

A lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal, 

Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent, 
and  my  foot 

Was  to  you:  but  I thought  again:  I 
fear’d 

To  meet  a cold  ‘ We  thank  you,  we 
shall  hear  of  it 

From  Lady  Psyche : ’ you  had  gone 
to  her, 

She  told,  perforce ; and  winning  easy 
grace, 

No  doubt,  for  slight  delay,  remain’d 
among  us 

In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown, 
the  stem 

Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my 
honest  heat 

W ere  all  miscounted  as  malignant 
haste 

To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and 
power. 


But  public  use  required  she  should  be 
known  ; 

And  since  my  oath  was  ta’en  for 
public  use, 

I broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the 

sense. 

I spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch’d 
them  well, 

Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief 
done ; 

And  yet  this  day  (tho’  you  should 
hate  me  for  it) 

I came  to  tell  you;  found  that  you 
had  gone, 

Ridd’n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise : now, 
I thought, 

That  surely  she  will  speak;  if  not, 
then  I : 

Did  she?  These  monsters  blazon’d 
what  they  were, 

According  to  the  coarseness  of  their 

kind, 

For  thus  I hear;  and  known  at  last 
(my  work) 

And  full  of . cowardice  and  guilty 
shame, 

I grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame, 
she  flies ; 

And  I remain  on  whom  to  wreak 

your  rage, 

I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up 

yours, 

I that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth, 
and  time, 

And  talent,  I — you  know  it  — I will 
not  boast  : 

Dismiss  me,  and  I prophesy  your  plan, 
Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be 
chaff 

For  every  gust  of  chance,  and  men 
will  say 

We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but 

chased 

The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot 
can  tread.” 

She  ceased : the  Princess  answer’d 
coldly,  “ Good : 

Your  oath  is  broken  : we  dismiss  you: 

go. 

For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the 
child) 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY . 


41! 


Our  mind  is  changed : we  take  it  to 
ourself.” 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch’d  a vul- 
ture throat, 

And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a haggard 
smile. 

"The  plan  was  mine.  I built  the 
nest  ” she  said 

“To  hatch  the  cuckoo.  Rise!”  and 
stoop’d  to  updrag 

Melissa : she,  half  on  her  mother  propt, 

Half-drooping  from  her,  turn’d  her 
face,  and  cast 

A liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer, 

Which  melted  Florian’s  fancy  as  she 
hung, 

A Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out, 

Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven ; 
and  while 

We  gazed  upon  her  came  a little  stir 

About  the  doors,  and  on  a sudden 
rush’d 

Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pur- 
sued, 

A woman-post  in  flying  raiment. 
Fear 

Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk’d  her 
face,  and  wing’d 

Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she 
fell 

Delivering  seal’d  dispatches  which 
the  Head 

Took  half-amazed,  and  in  her  lion’s 
mood 

Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 

Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over 
brow 

And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the 
wrathful  bloom 

As  of  some  fire  against  a stormy 
cloud. 

When  the  wild  peasant  rights  him- 
self, the  rick 

Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the 

I heavens ; 

For  anger  most  it  seem’d,  while  now 
her  breast, 

Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at 
her  heart, 

Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we 
heard 


In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she 
held 

Rustle : at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her 
feet 

Sent  out  a bitter  bleating  for  its  dam ; 

The  plaintive  cry  jarr’d  on  her  ire; 
she  crush’d 

The  scrolls  together,  made  a sudden 
turn 

As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing 
her, 

She  whirl’d  them  on  to  me,  as  who 
should  say 

“Read,”  and  I read — two  letters  — 
one  her  sire’s. 

“ Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the 
Prince  your  way 

We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws, 
which  learnt, 

We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you 
are  built, 

Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong, 
but  fell 

Into  his  father’s  hands,  who  has  this 
night, 

You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 

Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested 
you, 

And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his 
son.” 

The  second  was  my  father’s  running 

thus : 

“ You  have  our  son : touch  not  a hair 
of  his  head  : 

Render  him  up  unscathed : give  him 
your  hand : 

Cleave  to  your  contract : tho’  indeed 
we  hear 

You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man ; 

A rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 

Would  make  all  women  kick  against; 
their  Lords 

Thro’  all  the  world,  and  which  might 
well  deserve 

That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your 
palace  down ; 

And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us 
back 

Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole,” 


412 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


So  far  I read ; 

And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetu- 
ously. 

“ 0 not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your 
reserve, 

But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a hope 

The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I 
break 

Your  precinct;  not  a scorner  of  your 
sex 

But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 

All  that  it  might  be : hear  me,  for  I 
bear, 

Tho’  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe’er 
your  wrongs, 

From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock 
a life 

Less  mine  than  yours : my  nurse 
would  tell  me  of  you ; 

I babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the 
moon, 

Vague  brightness;  when  a boy,  you 
stoop’d  to  me 

From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair 
lights, 

Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  in- 
most south 

And  blown  to  inmost  north ; at  eve 
and  dawn 

With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods ; 

The  leader  wildswan  in  among  the 
stars 

Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths 
of  glowworm  light 

The  mellow  breaker  murmur’d  Ida. 
Now, 

Because  I would  have  reach’d  you, 
had  you  been 

Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the 
enthroned 

Persephone  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 

Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 

A man  I came  to  see  you  : but,  indeed, 

Not  in  this  frequence  can  I lend  full 
tongue, 

O noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that 
wait 

On  you,  their  centre : let  me  say  but 
this. 

That  many  a famous  man  and  woman, 
town 


And  landskip,  have  I heard  of,  after 

seen 

The  dwarfs  of  presage:  tho’  when 
known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty,  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing;  but  in 
you  I found 

My  boyish  dream  involved  and  daz- 
zled down 

And  master’d,  while  that  after-beauty 
makes 

Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour 
to  hour. 

Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me 
here, 

According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 
I cannot  cease  to  follow  you,  as  they  say 
The  seal  does  music ; who  desire  you 
more 

Than  growing  boys  their  manhood ; 
dying  lips, 

With  many  thousand  matters  left  to 
do, 

The  breath  of  life ; O more  than  poor 
men  wealth, 

Than  sick  men  health  — yours,  yours, 
not  mine  — but  half 
Without  you;  with  you,  whole;  and 
of  those  halves 

You  worthiest ; and  howe’er  you  block 
and  bar 

Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine, 
I hold 

That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse 
despair, 

But  in  the  teeth  of  clench’d  antago- 
nisms 

To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die : 
Yet  that  I came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father’s  letter.” 

On  one  knee 

Kneeling,  I gave  it,  which  she  caught, 
and  dash’d 

Unopen’d  at  her  feet : a tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem’d  to  wait  behind  her 
lips, 

As  waits  a river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world 
with  foam : 

And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but 
there  rose 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY . 


413 


\ hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the 
maids 

father’d  together:  from  the  illumined 
hall 

Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o’er  a 
press 

3f  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded 
ewes, 

Vnd  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and 
gemlike  eyes, 

Vnd  gold  and  golden  heads ; they  to 
and  fro 

fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some 
red,  some  pale, 

ill  open-mouth’d,  all  gazing  to  the 
light, 

tome  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the 
land, 

ind  some  that  men  were  in  the  very 
walls, 

ind  some  they  cared  not ; till  a 
clamor  grew 

is  of  a new-world  Babel,  woman- 
built, 

ind  worse-confounded : high  above 
them  stood 

7he  placid  marble  Muses,  looking 
peace. 

Not  peace  she  look’d,  the  Head: 
but  rising  up 

tobed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep 
hair,  so 

?o  the  open  window  moved,  remaining 
there 

i’ixt  like  a beacon-tower  above  the 
waves 

)f  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling 
eye 

rlares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the 
light 

)ash  themselves  dead.  She  stretch’d 
her  arms  and  call’d 

Lcross  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

“ What  fear  ye,  brawlers  1 am  not 
I your  Head  ? 

>n  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks  : 
1 dare 

ill  these  male  thunderbolts : ’what  is 
it  ye  fear  ? 


Peace ! there  are  those  to  avenge  us 
and  they  come : 

If  not, — myself  were  like  enough,  0 
girls, 

To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our 
rights, 

And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of 
war, 

Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause. 

Die : yet  I blame  you  not  so  much  for 
fear ; 

Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made 
you  that 

From  which  I would  redeem  you : but 
for  those 

That  stir  this  hubbub  — you  and  you 
— I know 

Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd  — to 
morrow  morn 

We  hold  a great  convention:  then 
shall  they 

That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty, 
learn 

With  whom  they  deal,  dismiss’d  in 
shame  to  live 

No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  house- 
hold stuff, 

Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other’s 
fame, 

Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the 
clown, 

The  drunkard’s  football,  laughing- 
stocks  of  Time, 

Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and 
in  their  heels, 

But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to 
thrum, 

To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and 
to  scour, 

For  ever  slaves  at  home  and  fools 
abroad.” 

She,  ending,  waved  her  hands  .• 
thereat  the  crowd 

Muttering,  dissolved : then  with  a 
smile,  that  look’d 

A stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the 
cliff, 

When  all  the  glens  are  drown’d  in 
azure  gloom 

Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us 
and  said : 


414 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


“You  have  done  well  and  like  a I 
gentleman, 

And  like  a prince : you  have  our 
thanks  for  all : 

And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman’s 
dress  : 

Well  have  you  done  and  like  a gentle- 
man. 

You  saved  our  life  : we  owe  you  bitter 
thanks : 

Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  j 
in  the  flood  — 

Then  men  had  said  — but  now  — What 
hinders  me 

To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 
both/?  — 

Yet  since  our  father-— Wasps  in  our 
good  hive, 

You  would-be  quenchers  of  the  light 
to  be, 

Barbarians,  grosser  than  your  native 
bears  — 

0 would  I had  his  sceptre  for  one 

hour! 

You  that  have  dared  to  break  our 
bound,  and  gull’d 

Our  servants,  wrong’d  and  lied  and 
thwarted  us  — 

/wed  with  thee!  /bound  by  precontract 

Your  bride,  your  bondslave  ! not  tho’ 
all  the  gold 

That  veins  the  world  were  pack’d  to 
make  your  crown, 

And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord 
you.  Sir, 

Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hate- 
ful to  us : 

1 trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you : 

Begone : we  will  not  look  upon  you 

more. 

Here,  push  them  out  at  gates.” 

In  wrath  she  spake. 

Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of 
the  plough 

Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and 
address’d 

Their  motion  : twice  I sought  to  plead 
my  cause, 

But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy 
h ands, 

The  weight  of  destiny  : so  from  her 
face 


They  push’d  us,  down  the  steps,  ane 
thro’  the  court, 

And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  ou 
at  gates. 

We  cross’d  the  street  and  gain’d  a 
petty  mound 

Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights 
and  heard 

The  voices  murmuring.  While  1 
listen’d,  came 

On  a sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the 
doubt : 

I seem’d  to  move  among  a world  oJ 
ghosts ; 

The  Princess  with  her  monstrous 
woman-guard, 

The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by 
side, 

The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the 
kings 

Were  shadows;  and  the  long  fantas 
tic  night 

With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  no; 
been, 

And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  b\ 

As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my 
spirits 

Settled  a gentle  cloud  of  melancholy 

Not  long;  I shook  it  off;  for  spite  oil 
doubts 

And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I was 
one 

To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischanc 
but  came 

As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a hiii 

Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Nor 
way  sun 

Set  into  sunrise ; then  we  moved  away 

Thy  voice  is  heard  thro’  rolling  drums, 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands; 

Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands : 

A moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee ; 

The  next,  like  tire  be  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

So  Lilia  sang : we  thought  her  half- 
possess’d, 

She  stfuek  such  warbling  fury  thro 
the  words ; 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


415 


md,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she 
call’d 

,'he  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false 
sublime — 

.ike  one  that  wishes  at  a dance  to 
change 

lie  music  — clapt  her  hands  and 
cried  for  war, 

r some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make 
an  end : 

nd  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
alf  turning  to  the  broken  statue,  said, 
jSir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors : if  I 
prove 

our  knight,  and  fight  your  battle, 
what  for  me  ? ” 

, chanced,  her  empty  glove  upon  the 
tomb 

ay  by  her  like  a model  of  her  hand, 
ne  took  it  and  she  flung  it.  “ Eight,” 
, she  said, 

And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great 
and  good.” 

e knightlike  in  his  cap  instead  of 
casque, 

cap  of  Tyrol  borrow’d  from  the  hall, 
rranged  the  favor,  and  assumed  the 
1 Erince. 


ow,  scarce  three  paces  measured 
from  the  mound, 

re  stumbled  on  a stationary  voice, 
nd  “ Stand,  who  goes  ? ” “ Two 

from  the  palace  ” I. 

The  second  two  : they  wait,”  he  said, 
“ pass  on  ; 

lis  Highness  wakes : ” and  one,  that 
clash’d  in  arms, 

ly  glimmering  lanes  and  walls  of 
canvass  led 

ireading  the  soldier-city,  till  we 
! heard 

be  drowsy  folds  of  our  great  ensign 
shake 

' ’om  blazon’d  lions  o’er  the  imperial 
5 tent 

hispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 
rzed  me  half-blind : I stood  and 
? seem’d  to  hear, 


As  in  a poplar  grove  when  a light 
wind  wakes 

A lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and 
dies, 

Each  hissing  in  his  neighbor’s  ear; 
and  then 

A strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there 
brake 

On  all  sides,  clamoring  etiquette  to 
death, 

Unmeasured  mirth ; while  now  the  two 
old  kings 

Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and 
down, 

The  fresh  young  captains  flash’d  their 
glittering  teeth, 

The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved 
and  blew, 

And  slain  with  laughter  roll’d  the 
gilded  Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek 
wet  with  tears, 

Panted  from  weary  sides  “ King,  you 
are  free  S 

We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our 
son, 

If  this  be  he,  — or  a draggled  mawkin, 
thou, 

That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in 
the  sludge : ” 

For  I was  drench’d  with  ooze,  and 
torn  with  briers, 

More  crumpled  than  a poppy  from  the 
sheath, 

And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  from  head 
to  heel. 

Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his 
vaulted  palm 

A whisper’d  jest  to  some  one  near 
him,  “ Look, 

He  has  been  among  his  shadows.” 
“ Satan  take 

The  old  women  and  their  shadows  1 
(thus  the  King 

Roar’d)  make  yourself  a man  to  fight 
with  men. 

Go  : Cyril  told  us  all.” 

As  boys  that  slink 

From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding 

eye, 

Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a trice 


416 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman- 
slough 

To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden 
scale 

Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that 
now 

Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the 
Earth, 

And  hit  the  Northern  hills.  Here 
Cyril  met  us. 

A little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 

We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask’d 
and  given 

For  stroke  and  song,  resolder’d  peace, 
whereon 

Follow’d  his  tale.  Amazed  he  fled 
away 

Thro’  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the 
night 

Had  came  on  Psyche  weeping : “ then 
we  fell 

Into  your  father’s  hand,  and  there  she 
lies, 

But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir.” 

He  show’d  a tent 

A stone-shot  off:  we  enter’d  in,  and 
there 

Among  piled  arms  and  rough  ac- 
coutrements, 

Pitiful  sight,  wrapp’d  in  a soldier’s 
cloak. 

Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped 
from  head  to  foot, 

And  push’d  by  rude  hands  from  its 
pedestal, 

All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground 
she  lay  : 

And  at  her  head  a follower  of  the 
camp, 

A charr’d  and  wrinkled  piece  of  wo- 
manhood, 

Sat  watching  like  a watcher  by  the 
dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt,  and  “ Come  ” 
he  whisper’d  to  her, 

“ Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister : lie 
not  thus. 

What  have  you  done  but  right  ? you 
could  not  slay 

Me,  nor  your  prince : look  up : be 
comforted : 


Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one 
ought, 

When  fallen  in  darker  ways.”  And 
likewise  I: 

“ Be  comforted : have  I not  lost  her 
too, 

In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless 
charm 

That  none  has  else  for  me  ? ” She 
heard,  she  moved, 

She  moan’d,  a folded  voice ; and  up 
she  sat, 

And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as 
pale  and  smooth 

As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded 
over  death 

In  deathless  marble.  “ Her,”  she 
said,  “ my  friend  — 

Parted  from  her  — betray’d  her  cause 
and  mine  — 

Where  shall  I breathe  ? why  kept  ye 
not  your  faith  ? 

O base  and  bad  ! what  comfort  ? none 
for  me ! ” 

To  whom  remorseful  Cyril,  “Yeti  pray 

Take  comfort:  live,  dear  lady,  for  youi 
child ! ” 

At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and 
cried. 

“ Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah, 
my  child, 

My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I shall  see 
no  more ! 

For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back  ; 

And  either  she  will  die  from  want  ol 
care, 

Or  sicken  with  ill-usage,  when  they  say 

The  child  is  hers  — for  every  little 
fault, 

The  child  is  hers  ; and  they  will  beat 
my  girl 

Remembering  her  mother:  O my 
flower ! 

Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make 
her  hard, 

And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 

With  some  cold  reverence  worse  than 
were  she  dead. 

Ill  mother  thatlwas  to  leave  her  there, 

To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry 
they  made, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


417 


The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them 
all: 

But  I will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a wild  petition  night  and 
day, 

Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a wind 
Wailing  for  ever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet, 
My  babe,  my  sweet  Agla'ia,  my  one 
child: 

And  I will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her : 
Ah ! what  might  that  man  not  deserve 
of  me 

Who  gave  me  back  my  child  1 ” " Be 
comforted, ” 

Said  Cyril,  “ you  shall  have  it : ” but 
again 

She  veil’d  her  brows,  and  prone  she 
sank,  and  so 

Like  tender  things  that  being  caught 
feign  death, 

Spoke  not,  nor  stirr’d. 

By  this  a murmur  ran 
Thro’  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced 
the  scouts 

With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at 
hand. 

We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  with- 
out 

Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle : and 
“ Look  you”  cried 

My  father  “ that  our  compact  be  ful- 
fill’d : 

You  have  spoilt  this  child ; she  laughs 
at  you  and  man : 

She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me, 
and  him : 

But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel 
and  fire ; 

She  yields,  or  war.” 

Then  Gama  turn’d  to  me : 
“We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a stormy 
time 

With  our  strange  girl : and  yet  they 
say  that  still 

You  love  her.  Give  us,  then,  your 
mind  at  large : 

How  say  you,  war  or  not  ? ” 

“ Not  war,  if  possible, 
0 king,”  I said,  “ lest  from  the  abuse 
of  war. 


The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled 
year, 

The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the 
household  flower 

Torn  from  the  lintel — all  the  com- 
mon wrong  — 

A smoke  go  up  thro’  which  I loom  to 
her 

Three  times  a monster:  now  she 
lightens  scorn 

At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then 
would  hate 

(And  every  voice  she  talk’d  with 
ratify  it, 

And  every  face  she  look’d  on  justify  it) 

The  general  foe.  More  soluble  is  this 
knot, 

By  gentleness  than  war.  I want  her 
love. 

What  were  I nigher  this  altho’  we 
dash’d 

Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults, 

She  would  not  love ; — or  brought  her 
chain’d,  a slave. 

The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord, 

Not  ever  would  she  love ; but  brood- 
ing turn 

The  book  of  scorn,  till  all  my  flitting 
chance 

Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her 
wrongs, 

And  crush’d  to  death : and  rather. 
Sire,  than  this 

I would  the  old  God  of  war  himself 
were  dead, 

Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills. 

Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs 
of  wreck, 

Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk’d 
in  ice, 

Not  to  be  molten  out.” 

And  roughly  spake 

My  father,  Tut,  you  know  them  not, 
the  girls. 

Boy,  when  I hear  you  prate  I almost 
think 

That  idiot  legend  credible.  Look  you, 
Sir ! 

Man  is  the  hunter;  woman  is  his 
game : 

The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the 
chase, 


418 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their 
skins ; 

They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them 
down. 

Wheedling  and  siding  with  them ! 
Out ! for  shame  ! 

Boy,  there's  no  rose  that’s  half  so  dear 
to  them 

As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare 
not  do, 

Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous 
battle,  comes 

With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round 
him,  and  leaps  in 

Among  the  women,  snares  them  by 
the  score 

Flatter’d  and  fluster’d,  wins,  tho’ 
dash’d  with  death 

He  reddens  what  he  kisses : thus  I won 

Your  mother,  a good  mother,  a good 
wife, 

Worth  winning;  but  this  firebrand — 
gentleness 

To  such  as  her!  if  Cyril  spake  her  true. 

To  catch  a dragon  in  a cherry  net. 

To  trip  a tigress  with  a gossamer, 

Were  wisdom  to  it.” 

“ Yea  but  Sire,”  I cried, 

“ Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.  The 
soldier  ? No : 

What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should 
prize 

The  soldier  ? I beheld  her,  when  she 
rose 

The  yesternight,  and  storming  in  ex- 
tremes, 

Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance 
down 

Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn’d 
the  death, 

No,  not  the  soldier’s  : yet  I hold  her, 
king, 

True  woman : but  you  clash  them  all 
in  one, 

That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 

The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 

As  oak  from  elm : one  loves  the  sol- 
dier, one 

The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this, 
one  that, 

And  some  unworthily;  their  sinless 
faith. 


A maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a sty, 

Glorifying  clown  and  satyr ; whence 
they  need 

More  breadth  of  culture  : is  not  Ida 
right  ? 

They  worth  it  ? truer  to  the  law  with- 
in ? 

Severer  in  the  logic  of  a life  ? 

Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 

Of  earth  and  heaven  ? and  she  of 
whom  you  speak, 

My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some 
serene 

Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 

Of  sovereign  artists ; not  a thought, 
a touch, 

But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak 
the  white 

Of  the  first  snowdrop’s  inner  leaves ; 
I say, 

Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man, 

Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in 
sensual  mire, 

But  whole  and  one:  and  take  them 
ail-in-all, 

Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good, 
as  kind, 

As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claims  as 
right 

Had  ne’er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly 
theirs 

As  dues  of  Nature.  To  our  point: 
not  war : 

Lest  I lose  all.” 

“Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense,” 

Said  Gama.  “ We  remember  love 
ourself 

In  our  sweet  youth ; we  did  not  rate 
him  then 

This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with 
blows. 

You  talk  almost  like  Ida : she  can  talk; 

And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you 
say: 

But  you  talk  kindlier : we  esteem  you 
for  it.  — 

He  seems  a gracious  and  a gallant 
Prince, 

1 would  he  had  our  daughter : for  the 
rest, 

Our  own  detention,  why,  the  causes 
weigh’d. 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


419 


Fatherly  fears — you  used  us  cour- 
teously — 

We  would  do  much  to  gratify  your 
Prince  — 

We  pardon  it;  and  for  your  ingress 
here 

Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair 
land, 

You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the 
night, 

Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  plough- 
man’s head, 

Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss’d  the 
milking-maid, 

Nor  robb’d  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of 
cream : 

But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word 
upon  it, 

He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to 
our  lines, 

And  speak  with  Arac : Arac’s  word 
is  thrice 

As  ours  with  Ida  : something  may  be 
done  — 

I know  not  what  — and  ours  shall  see 
us  friends. 

You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so 
you  will, 

Follow  us  : who  knows  ? we  four  may 
build  some  plan 

Foursquare  to  opposition.” 

Here  he  reach’d 

White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire, 
who  growl’d 

An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in  his 
beard, 

Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to 
go. 

Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king 
across  the  lawns 

Beneath  huge  trees,  a thousand  rings 
of  Spring 

In  every  bole,  a song  on  every  spray 

Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines, 
and  woke 

Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of 
love 

In  the  old  king’s  ears,  who  promised 
help,  and  oozed 

All  o’er  with  honey’d  answer  as  we 
rode 


And  blossom-fragrant  slipt  the  heavy 
dews 

Gather’d  by  night  and  peace,  with 
each  light  air 

On  our  mail’d  heads : but  other 
thoughts  than  Peace 

Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  em- 
battled squares, 

And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  tramp- 
ling the  flowers 

With  clamor : for  among  them  rose  a 
cry 

As  if  to  greet  the  king;  they  made  a 
halt ; 

The  horses  yell’d ; they  clash’d  their 
arms  ; the  drum 

Beat;  merrily -blowing  shrill’d  the 
martial  fife  ; 

And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long 
horn 

And  serpent-throated  bugle, undulated 

The  banner  : anon  to  meet  us  lightly 
pranced 

Three  captains  out;  nor  ever  had  I 
seen 

Such  thews  of  men  : the  midmost  and 
the  highest 

Was  Arac : all  about  his  motion 
clung 

The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 

Of  the  East,  that  play’d  upon  them, 
made  them  glance 

Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy 
Giant’s  zone, 

That  glitter  burnish’d  by  the  frosty 
dark  ; 

And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue, 

And  bickers  into  red  and  emerald, 
shone 

Their  morions,  wash’d  with  morningj 
as  they  came. 

And  I that  prated  peace,  when  first 
I heard 

War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of 
of  force, 

Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a 
man, 

Stir  in  me  as  to  strike : then  took  the 
king 

His  three  broad  sons ; with  now  a 
wandering  hand 


420 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


And  now  a pointed  finger, told  them  all  : 

A common  light  of  smiles  at  our  dis- 
guise 

Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the 
windy  jest 

Had  labor’d  down  within  his  ample 
lungs, 

The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roll’d  himself 

Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in 
words. 

“ Our  land  invaded,  ’sdeath ! and  he 
himself 

Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not 
war  : 

And,  ’sdeath ! myself,  what  care  I, 
war  or  no  ? 

But  then  this  question  of  your  troth 
remains  : 

And  there’s  a downright  honest  mean- 
ing in  her ; 

She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high  ! 
and  yet 

She  ask’d  but  space  and  fairplay  for 
her  scheme ; 

She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me  — I my- 
self, 

What  know  I of  these  things  ? but, 
life  and  soul ! 

I thought  her  half-right  talking  of  her 
wrongs ; 

I say  she  flies  too  high,  ’sdeath ! what 
of  that  ? 

I take  her  for  the  flower  of  woman- 
kind, 

And  so  I often  told  her,  right  or  wrong, 

And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those 
she  loves. 

And,  right  or  wrong,  I care  not : this 
is  all, 

1 stand  upon  her  side : she  made  me 
swear  it  — 

’Sdeath  — and  with  solemn  rites  by 
candlelight  — 

Swear  by  St.  something  — I forget 
her  name  — 

Her  that  talk’d  down  the  fifty  wisest 
men  ; 

She  was  a princess  too  ; and  so  I 
swore. 

Come,  this  is  all ; she  will  not : waive 
your  claim 


If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else, 
at  once 

Decides  it,  ’sdeath ! against  my 
father’s  will.” 

I lagg’d  in  answer  loth  to  render  up 

My  precontract,  and  loth  by  brainless 
war 

To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper 
yet; 

Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half 
aside 

And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his 
lip. 

To  prick  us  on  to  combat  “ Like  to 
like ! 

The  woman’s  garment  hid  the 
woman’s  heart.” 

A taunt  that  clench’d  his  purpose 
like  a blow ! 

For  fiery-short  was  Cyril’s  counter- 
scoff, 

And  sharp  I answer’d,  touch’d  upon 
the  point 

Where  idle  boys  are  cowards  to  their 
shame, 

“ Decide  it  here : why  not  ? we  are 
three  to  three.” 

Then  spake  the  third  “ But  three  to 
three  ? no  more  ? 

No  more,  and  in  our  noble  sister’s 
cause  ? 

More,  more,  for  honor : every  captain 
waits 

Hungry  for  honor,  angry  for  his  king. 

More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a side,  that 
each 

May  breathe  himself,  and  quick  S by 
overthrow 

Of  these  or  those,  the  question  set- 
tled die.” 

“ Yea,”  answer’d  I,  “for  this  wild 
wreath  of  air, 

This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the 
highest 

Foam  of  men’s  deeds  — this  honor,  if 
ye  will. 

It  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 

Since,  what  decision  ? if  we  fail,  we 
fail. 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


421 


And  if  we  win,  we  fail : she  would  not 
keep 

Her  compact.”  “ ’Sdeath ! but  we 
will  send  to  her,” 

Said  Arac,  “ worthy  reasons  why  she 
should 

Bide  by  this  issue : let  our  missive  thro’, 

And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by 
the  word.” 

“ Boys  ! ” shriek’d  the  old  king,  but 
vainlier  than  a hen 

To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool; 
for  none 

Regarded ; neither  seem’d  there  more 
to  say : 

Back  rode  we  to  my  father’s  camp, 
and  found 

Tie  thrice  had  sent  a herald  to  the 
gates, 

To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our 
claim, 

Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 

With  her  own  people’s  life : three 
times  he  went : 

The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none 
appear’d : 

He  batter’d  at  the  doors  ; none  came : 
the  next, 

An  awful  voice  within  had  warn’d 
him  thence  : 

The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters 
of  the  plough 

Came  sallying  thro’  the  gates,  and 
caught  his  hair. 

And  so  belabor’d  him  on  rib  and 
cheek 

They  made  him  wild : not  less  one 
glance  he  caught 

Thro’  open  doors  of  Ida  station’d 
there 

Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose, 
firm 

Tho’  compass’d  by  two  armies  and 
the  noise 

Of  arms ; and  standing  like  a stately 
Pine 

Set  in  a cataract  on  an  island-crag, 

When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and 
right  and  left 

Suck’d  from  the  dark  heart  of  the 
long  hills  roll 


The  torrents,  dash’d  to  the  vale:  and 
yet  her  will 

Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I told  the  king  that  I 
was  pledged 

To  fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he 
clash’d 

His  iron  palms  together  with  a cry ; 

Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the 
lads : 

But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded 
lords 

With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and 
state,  perforce 

He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce 
demur : 

And  many  a bold  knight  started  up  in 
heat, 

And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim 
till  death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the 
field 

Flat  to  the  garden-wall : and  likewise 
here, 

Above  the  garden’s  glowing  blossom- 
belts, 

A column’d  entry  shone  and  marble 
stairs, 

And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss’d 
with  Tomyris 

And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight, 

But  now  fast  barr’d : so  here  upon 
the  flat 

All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were 
hammer’d  up, 

And  all  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and 
fro, 

With  message  and  defiance,  went  and 
came; 

Last,  Ida’s  answer,  in  royal  hand, 

But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rob 
ling  words 

Oration-like.  I kiss’d  it  and  I read. 

“ O brother,  you  have  known  the 
pangs  we  felt, 

What  heats  of  indignation  when  we 
heard 

Of  those  that  iron-cramp’d  theif 
women’s  feet; 


422 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the 
poor  bride 

Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift 
a scourge ; 

Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the 
fire 

Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots; 
and  of  those,  — 

Mothers,  — that,  all  prophetic  pity, 
fling 

Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running 
flood,  and  swoops 

The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the 
heart 

Made  for  all  noble  motion  : and  I saw 

That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker 
times 

With  smoother  men  : the  old  leaven 
leaven’d  all : 

Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for 
civil  rights, 

No  woman  named : therefore  I set 
my  face 

Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for 
mine  own. 

Far  off  from  men  I built  a fold  for 
them  : 

I stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 

I fenced  it  round  with  gallant  insti- 
tutes, 

And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts 
of  prey 

And  prosper’d ; till  a rout  of  saucy 
boys 

Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr’d 
our  peace, 

Mask’d  like  our  maids,  blustering  I 
know  not  what 

Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext 
held 

Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my 
will 

Seal’d  not  the  bond  — the  striplings  ! 
— for  their  sport ! — 

I tamed  my  leopards : shall  I not 
tame  these  % 

Or  you  ? or  I ? for  since  you  think  me 
touch’d 

In  honor  — what,  I would  not  aught 
of  false  — 

Is  not  our  cause  pure  ? and  whereas  I 
know 


Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what 
mother’s  blood 

You  draw  from,  fight;  you  failing,  I 
abide 

What  end  soever : fail  you  will  not. 
Still 

Take  not  his  life  : he  risk’d  it  for  my 
own ; 

His  mother  lives  : yet  whatsoe’er  you 
do, 

Fight  and  fight  well;  strike  and  strike 
home.  O dear 

Brothers,  the  woman’s  Angel  guards 
you,  you 

The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our 
cause, 

The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the 
aftertime, 

Your  very  armor  hallow’d,  and  your 
statues 

Bear’d,  sung  to,  when,  this  gad-fly 
brush’d  aside, 

We  plant  a solid  foot  into  the  Time, 

And  mould  a generation  strong  to 

move 

With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to 
right,  till  she 

Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children’s, 
know  herself; 

And  Knowledge  in  our  own  land 
make  her  free, 

And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned 
twins, 

Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the 
fiery  grain 

Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that 
orbs 

Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern 
morn.” 

Then  came  a postscript  dash’d 
across  the  rest. 

“ See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your 
camp  : 

We  seem  a nest  of  traitors  — none  to 
trust 

Since  our  arms  fail’d  — this  Egypt- 
jfiague  of  men ! 

Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their 
homes, 

Than  thus  man-girled  here:  indeed  1 

think 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


423 


Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 

Of  one  unworthy  mother;  which  she 
left : 

She  shall  not  have  it  back:  the  child 
shall  grow 

To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her 
mind. 

I took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 

This  morning:  there  the  tender  orphan 
hands 

Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem’d  to  charm 
from  thence 

The  wrath  I nursed  against  the  world 
farewell.” 

I ceased  ; he  said,  “ Stubborn,  but 
she  may  sit 

Upon  a king’s  right  hand  in  thunder- 
storms, 

And  breed  up  warriors ! See  now,  tho’ 
yourself 

Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to 
sloughs 

That  swallow  common  sense,  the 
spindling  king, 

This  Gama  swamp’d  in  lazy  tolerance. 

When  the  man  wants  weight,  the 
woman  takes  it  up, 

And  topples  down  the  scales;  but  this 
is  fixt 

As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of 
all; 

Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the 
hearth : 

Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle 
she : 

Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with 
heart : 

Man  to  command  and  woman  to 
obey; 

All  else  confusion.  Look  you!  the 
gray  mare 

Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny 
shrills 

From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small 
goodman 

Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the 
fires  of  Hell 

Mix  with  his  hearth  : but  you  — she’s 
yet  a colt  — 

Take,  break  her : strongly  groom’d  and 
straitly  curb’d 


She  might  not  rank  with  those  detest* 
able 

That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home, 
and  brawl 

Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs 
in  the  street. 

They  say  she’s  comely;  there’s  the 
fairer  chance : 

I like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at 
her ! 

Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we. 

But  suffers  change  of  frame.  A lusty 
brace 

Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly 
Boy, 

The  bearing  and  training  of  a child 

Is  woman’s  wisdom  ” 

Thus  the  hard  old  kmg  : 

I took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly 
noon: 

I pored  upon  her  letter  which  I held. 

And  on  the  little  clause  “ take  not  his 
life:” 

I mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the 
woods, 

And  on  the 4t  Follow,  follow,  thou  shall 
win : ” 

I thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had 
said, 

And  how  the  strange  betrothment 
was  to  end : 

Then  I remember’d  that  burnt  sor- 
cerer’s curse 

That  one  should  fight  with  shadows 
and  should  fall; 

And  like  a flash  the  weird  affection 
came : 

King,  camp  and  college  turn’d  to  hol- 
low shows ; 

I seem’d  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 

And  doing  battle  with  forgotten 
ghosts, 

To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a 
dream : 

And  ere  I woke  it  was  the  point  of 
noon, 

The  lists  were  ready.  Empanoplied 
and  plumed 

We  enter’d  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 

Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet 
blared 


424 


THE  PRINCESS;  A mEDLEY. 


At  the  barrier  like  a wild  horn  in  a 
land 

Of  echoes,  and  a moment,  and  once 
more 

The  trumpet,  and  again  : at  which  the 
storm 

Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge 
of  spears 

And  riders  front  to  front,  until  they 
closed 

In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering 
points, 

And  thunder.  Yet  it  seem’d  a dream, 
I dream’d 

Of  fighting.  On  his  haunches  rose 
the  steed, 

And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the 
lance, 

And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang 
the  fire. 

Part  sat  like  rocks:  part  reel’d  but 
kept  their  seats : 

Part  roll’d  on  the  earth  and  rose 
again  and  drew: 

Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering 
horses.  Down 

From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac’s  side, 
and  down 

From  Arac’s  arm,  as  from  a giant’s 
flail, 

The  large  blows  rain’d,  as  here  and 
everywhere 

He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ring- 
ing lists, 

And  all  the  plain,  — brand,  mace,  and 
shaft,  and  shield  — 

Shock’d,  like  an  iron-clanging  anvil 
bang’d 

With  hammers;  till  I thought,  can 
this  be  he 

From  Gama’s  dwarfish  loins  ? if  this 
be  so, 

The  mother  makes  us  most — and  in 
my  dream 

I glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace- 
front 

Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies’ 
eyes, 

And  highest,  among  the  statues, 
statue-like, 

Between  a cymbal’d  Miriam  and  a 
Jael, 


With  Psyche’s  babe,  was  Ida  watch- 
ing us, 

A single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair, 

Like  a Saint’s  glory  up  in  heaven  . but 
she 

No  saint  — inexorable — no  tender- 
ness — 

Too  hard,  too  cruel : yet  she  sees  me 
fight, 

Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall ! with  that  I 
drave 

Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a 
Prince, 

And  Cyril,  one.  Yea,  let  me  make 
my  dream 

All  that  I would.  But  that  large- 
moulded  man, 

His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a wake, 

Made  at  me  thro’  the  press,  and,  stag- 
gering back 

With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and 
horseman,  came 

As  comes  a pillar  of  electric  cloud, 

Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the 
drains, 

And  shadowing  down  the  champaign 
till  it  strikes 

On  a wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 
cracks,  and  splits, 

And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a roar 
that  Earth 

Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry;  for 
everything 

Gave  way  before  him : only  Florian,  he 

That  loved  me  closer  than  his  own 
right  eye, 

Thrust  in  between;  but  Arac  rode 
him  down: 

And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push’d  against 
the  Prince, 

With  Psyche’s  color  round  his  helmet, 
tough, 

Strong,  supple,  sinew-corded,  apt  at 
arms  ; 

But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that 
smote 

And  threw  him  : last  I spurr’d  ; I felt 
my  veins 

Stretch  with  fierce  heat;  a moment 
hand  to  hand, 

And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  te 
horse  we  hung, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY . 


425 


'ill  I struck  out  and  shouted ; the 
blade  glanced, 

did  but  shear  a feather,  and  dream 
and  truth 

'low’d  from  me  ; darkness  closed  me  ; 
and  I fell. 


VI. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead : 

She  nor  swoon’d,  nor  utter’d  cry: 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

“ She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.” 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call’d  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 

“ Sweet  my  child,  I live  for  thee.” 

[y  dream  had  never  died  or  lived 
again. 

.s  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I lay  ; 
eeing  I saw  not,  hearing  not  I heard : 
ho’,  if  I saw  not,  yet  they  told  me 
all 

a often  that  I speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem’d,  or  so  they  said  to 
me, 

hat  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and 
more  strange ; 

hat  when  our  side  was  vanquish’d 
and  my  cause 

or  ever  lost,  there  went  up  a great 
cry, 

he  Prince  is  slain.  My  father  heard 
and  ran 

i on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my 
casque 

nd  grovell’d  on  my  body,  and  after 
him 

true  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Agla'ia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
rith  Psyche’s  babe  in  arm  : there  on 
the  roofs 

ke  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she 
sang. 


“Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n:  the 
seed, 

The  little  seed  they  laugh’d  at  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A thousand  arms  and  rushes  to  the  Sun. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n  : they 
came; 

The  leaves  were  wet  with  women’s  tears: 
they  heard 

A noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand: 
They  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the  fall, 
And  would  have  strown  it,  and  are  fall’n 
themselves. 

“Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n  : they 
came, 

The  woodmen  with  their  axes : lo  the  tree ! 
But  we  will  make  it  faggots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  and 
floor, 

And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n : they 
struck ; 

With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves, 
nor  knew 

There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain  : 

The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arms, 
Their  arms  were  shatter’d  to  the  shoulder 
blade. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  but  cnis  shall 
grow 

A night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power : and 
roll’d 

With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the 
fangs 

Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

“ And  now,  O maids,  behold  our 
sanctuary 

Is  violate,  our  laws  broken : fear  we 
not 

To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof, 
whose  arms 

Champion’d  our  cause  and  won  it  with 
a day 

Blanch’d  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual 
feast, 

When  dames  and  heroines  of  the 
golden  year 

Shall  strip  a hundred  hollows  bare  of 
Spring, 

To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three 
but  come, 

vVe  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights 
are  won. 


426 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with 
coarse  mankind, 

111  nurses  ; but  descend,  and  proffer 
these 

The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause, 
that  there 

Lie  bruised  and  maim’d,  the  tender 
ministries 

Of  female  hands  and  hospitality.” 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet 
in  her  arms, 

Descending,  burst  the  great  bronze 
valves,  and  led 

A hundred  maids  in  train  across  the 
Park. 

Some  cowl’d,  and  some  bare-headed, 
on  they  came, 

Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest : 
by  them  went 

The  enamor’d  air  sighing,  and  on 
, their  curls 

From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  waver- 
ing fell, 

And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of 
light 

Slided.  they  moving  under  shade  : but 
Blanche 

At  distance  follow’d : so  they  came : 
anon 

Thro’  open  field  into  the  lists  they 
wound 

Timorously  ; and  as  the  leader  of  the 
herd 

That  holds  a stately  fretwork  to  the 
Sun* 

And  follow’d  up  by  a hundred  airy 
does, 

Steps  with  a tender  foot,  light  as  on 
air, 

The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated 
on 

To  where  her  wounded  brethren  lay; 
there  stay’d ; 

Knelt  on  one  knee,  — the  child  on  one, 
— and  prest 

Their  hands,  and  call’d  them  dear 
deliverers, 

And  happy  warriors,  and  immortal 
names, 

And  said  “ You  shall  not  lie  in  the 
tents  but  here. 


And  nursed  by  those  for  whom  yo 
fought,  and  served 

With  female  hands  and  hospitality.’ 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  o 
was  it  chance, 

She  past  my  way.  Up  started  fror 
my  side 

The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  wheli 

less  eye, 

Silent;  but  when  she  saw  me  lyin 
stark, 

Dishelm’d  and  mute,  and  motionless! 
pale, 

Cold  ev’n  to  her,  she  sigh’d ; and  whe] 

she  saw 

The  haggard  father’s  face  and  rev 
erend  beard 

Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  th 
blood 

Of  his  own  son,  shudder’d,  a twitch  o 
pain 

Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o’er  he 
forehead  past 

A shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  an 
she  said : 

“ He  saved  my  life  : my  brother  sle\‘ 
him  for  it.” 

No  more  : at  which  the  king  in  bitte 
scorn 

Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  an 
the  tress, 

And  held  them  up : she  saw  them 
and  a day 

R ose  from  the  distance  bn  her  memory 

When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother 
shore  the  tress 

With  kisses,  ere  the  days  of  Lad 
Blanche : 

And  then  once  more  she  look’d  at  m ; 
pale  face : 

Till  understanding  all  the  foolis’ 
work 

Of  fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all, 

Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  he 
mind; 

Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  he 
breast ; 

She  bow’d,  she  set  the  child  on  tin 
earth  ; she  laid 

A feeling  finger  on  my  brows,  am 
presently 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


42/ 


! 0 Sire,”  she  said,  “ he  lives  : he  is 
not  dead : 

.)  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren 
here 

n our  own  palace : we  will  tend  on 
him  . 

^ike  one  of  these:  if  so,  by  any 
means 

fo  lighten  th  s great  clog  of  thanks, 
that  make 

)ur  progress  falter  to  the  woman’s 
goal.” 

She  said  : but  at  the  happy  word 
“'he  lives” 

dy  father  stoop’d,  re-father’d  o’er  my 
wounds. 

>o  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 

With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and 
evening  mixt 

C'heir  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche 
ever  stole 

V little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by 

us, 

dalf-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden 
brede, 

^ay  like  a new-fall’n  meteor  on  the 
grass, 

Jncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and 
began 

V blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and 

to  dance 

ts  body,  and  reach  its  fatting  inno- 
cent arms 

Ind  lazy  lingering  fingers.  She  the 
appeal 

brook’d  not,  but  clamoring  out  “ Mine 
— mine  — not  yours, 

’ t is  not  yours,  but  mine : give  me  the 
child  ” 

leased  all  on  tremble  : piteous  was 
the  cry : 

do  stood  the  unhappy  mother  open- 
mouth’d, 

Ind  turn’d  each  face  her  way : wan 
was  her  cheek 

With  hollow  watch,  her  blooming 
mantle  torn, 

ted  grief  and  mother’s  hunger  in  her 

f eye, 

ind  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls, 

1 and  half 


The  sacred  mother’s  bosom,  panting, 
burst 

The  laces  toward  her  babe ; but  she 
nor  cared 

Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida 
heard, 

Look’d  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me, 
stood 

Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her 
glance 

The  mother,  me,  the  child ; but  he 
that  lay 

Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter’d  as  he  was, 

Trail’d  himself  up  on  one  knee : then 
he  drew 

Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  down 
* she  look’d 

At  the  arm’d  man  sideways,  pitying 
as  it  seem’d, 

Or  self-involved ; but  when  she  learnt 
his  face, 

Remembering  his  ill-omen’d  song, 
arose 

Once  more  thro’  all  her  height,  and 
o’er  him  grew 

Tall  as  a figure  lengthen’d  on  the  sand 

When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and 
he  said : 

“ O fair  and  strong  and  terrible ! 
Lioness 

That  with  your  long  locks  play  the 
Lion’s  mane ! 

But  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two 
more  terrible 

And  stronger.  See,  your  foot  is  on 
our  necks, 

We  vanquish’d,  you  the  Victor  of 
your  will. 

What  would  you  more  ? give  her  the 
child ! remain 

Orb’d  in  your  isolation  : he  is  dead- 

Or  all  as  dead  : henceforth  we  let  you 
be : 

Win  you  the  hearts  of  women;  and 
beware 

Lest,  where  you  seek  the  common 
love  of  these, 

The  common  hate  with  the  revolving 
wheel 

Should  drag  you  down,  and  some 
great  Nemesis 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY \ 


\2S 


Break  from  a darken’d  future,  crown’d 
with  fire, 

And  tread  you  out  for  ever  : but  how- 
soe’er 

Fix’d  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own 
arms 

To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to 
her. 

Give  her  the  child ! O if,  I say,  you 
keep 

One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if 
you  loved 

The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dan- 
dled you, 

Or  own  one  port  of  sense  not  flint  to 
prayer, 

Give  her  the  child!  or  if  you  scorn 
to  lay  it, 

Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt 
with  yours, 

Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her 
one  fault 

The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could 
not  kill, 

Give  me  it:  I will  give  it  her.” 

He  said : 

At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation 
roll’d 

Dry  flame,  she  listening ; after  sank 
and  sank 

And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellow- 
ing, dwelt 

Full  on  the  child ; she  took  it : 
“ Pretty  bud! 

Lxiy  of  the  vale ! half  open’d  bell  of 
the  woods ! 

Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when 
a world 

Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  sys- 
tem made 

No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 

Pledge  of  a love  not  to  be  mine, 
farewell ; 

These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old, 

We  two  must  part:  and  yet  how  fain 
was  I 

To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in 
mine,  to  think 

I might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I 
felt 

Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren 
breast 


In  the  dead  prime  : but  may  th} 
mother  prove 

As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to 
me ! 

And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the 
yoke,  I wish  it 

Gentle  as  freedom  ” — here  she  kiss’d 
it : then  — 

“ All  good  go  with  thee ! take  it,  Sir,” 
and  so 

Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed 
hands, 

Who  turn’d  half-round  to  Psyche  as 
she  sprang 

To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in 
thanks ; 

Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from 
head  to  foot, 

And  hugg’d  and  never  hugg’d  it  close 
enough, 

And  in  her  hunger  mouth’d  and  mum- 
bled it, 

And  hid  her  bosom  with  it;  after  that 

Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppli- 
antly : 

“We  two  were  friends:  I go  to 
mine  own  land 

For  ever:  find  some  other:  as  for  me 

I scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans  : 
yet  speak  to  me, 

Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  part 
forgiven.” 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  lmnn  thp 
child. 

Then  Arac.  “Ida  — ’sdeath  ! yon 

blame  the  man ; 

You  wrong  yourselves  — the  woman 
is  so  hard 

Upon  the  woman.  Come,  a grace  to 
me ! 

I am  your  warrior.  I and  mine  have 
fought 

Your  battle:  kiss  her;  take  her  hand 
she  weeps : 

’Sdeath ! I would  sooner  fight  thrice 
o’er  than  see  it.” 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  gazing  on  tht 
ground, 


THE  PRINCESS ; a MEDLEY. 


429 


And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his 
chin, 

And  moved  beyond  his  custom,  Gama 
said : 

“ I’ve  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the 
blood, 

And  I believe  it.  Not  one  word  ? not 
one  ? 

Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper  ? 
not  from  me. 

Not  from  your  mother,  now  a saint 
with  saints. 

She  said  you  had  a heart  — I heard 
her  say  it  — 

‘ Our  Ida  has  a heart’  — just  ere  she 
died  — 

‘But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 

Be  near  her  still’  and  I — I sought 
for  one  — 

All  people  said  she  had  authority  — 

The  Lady  Blanche : much  profit ! 
Not  one  word ; 

No ! tho’  your  father  sues : see  how 
you  stand 

Stiff  as  Lot’s  wife,  and  all  the  good 
knights  maim’d, 

1 trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to 
death, 

For  your  wild  whim : and  was  it  then 
for  this, 

Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up. 

Where  we  withdrew  from  summer 
heats  and  state, 

And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath 
the  planes, 

And  many  a pleasant  hour  with  her 
that’s  gone, 

Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us  % Is  it 
kind  ? 

Speak  to  her  I say : is  this  not  she  of 
whom, 

When  first  she  came,  all  flush’d  you 
said  to  me 

Now  had  you  got  a friend  of  your 
own  age, 

tfow  could  you  share  your  thought ; 
now  should  men  see 

Two  women  faster  welded  in  one 
love 

Than  pairs  of  wedlock;  she  you 
walk’d  with,  she 


You  talk’d  with,  whole  nights  long,  up 
in  the  tower, 

Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth, 

And  right  ascension,  Heaven  knows 
what ; and  now 

A word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly 
word, 

Not  one  to  spare  her : out  upon  you, 
flint ! 

You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any; 
nay, 

You  shame  your  mother’s  judgment 
too.  Not  one  ? 

You  will  not'?  well  — no  heart  have 
you,  or  such 

As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a nut 

Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitter- 
ness.” 

So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond 
his  wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain’d  of 
her  force 

By  many  a varying  influence  and  so 
long. 

Down  thro’  her  limbs  a drooping  lan- 
guor wept : 

Her  head  a little  bent ; and  on  her 
mouth 

A doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a clouded 
moon 

In  a still  water : then  brake  out  my 
sire, 

Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my 
wounds.  “ O you, 

Woman,  whom  we  thought  woman 
even  now, 

And  were  half  fool’d  to  let  you  tend 
our  son, 

Because  he  might  have  wish’d  it  — 
but  we  see 

The  accomplice  of  your  madness  un 
forgiven, 

And  think  that  you  might  mix  his 
draught  with  death, 

When  your  skies  change  again : the 
rougher  hand 

Is  safer : on  to  the  tents : take  up  the 
Prince.” 

He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  waa 
prick’d  to  attend 


430 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


A tempest,  thro’  the  cloud  that 
dimm'd  her  broke 

A genial  warmth  and  light  once 
more,  and  shone 

Thro’  glittering  drops  on  her  sad 
friend. 

“ Come  hither, 

0 Psyche,”  she  cried  out,  “ embrace 

me,  come 

Quick  while  I melt ; make  reconcile- 
ment sure 

With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind 
an  hour : 

Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander 
so  ! 

Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children 
being  chid ! 

/ seem  no  more : I want  forgiveness 
too : 

1 should  have  had  to  do  with  none 

but  maids, 

That  have  no  links  with  men.  Ah 
false  but  dear, 

Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why  ? — 
why  ? — Yet  see, 

Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you 
yet  once  more 

With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 

And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  O sire, 

Grant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,  to  wait 
upon  him, 

Like  mine  own  brother.  For  my  debt 
to  him, 

This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I 
know  it ; 

Taunt  me  no  more : yourself  and 
yours  shall  have 

Free  adit ; we  will  scatter  all  our 
maids 

Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper 
hearth  : 

What  use  to  keep  them  here  — now  ? 
grant  my  prayer. 

Help,  father,  brother,  help  ; speak  to 
the  king : 

Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch 
of  that 

Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and 
drags  me  down 

From  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up 
with  all 


The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  woman- 
kind, 

Poor  weakling  ev’n  as  they  are.” 

Passionate  tears 

Follow'd  : the  king  replied  not : Cyril 
said : 

“ Your  brother,  Lady  — Florian,  — 
ask  for  him 

Of  your  great  head  — for  he  ie 
wounded  too  — 

That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 
prince.” 

“ Ay  so,”  said  Ida  with  a bitter  smile, 

“ Our  laws  are  broken : let  him  enter 
too.” 

Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mourn- 
ful song, 

And  had  a cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 

Petition'd  too  for  him.  “ Ay  so,”  she 
said, 

“I  stagger  in  the  stream : I cannot  keep  | 

My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling 
hour: 

We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let 
it  be.” 

“Ay  so'?”  said  Blanche:  “Amazed 
am  I to  hear 

Your  Highness : but  your  Highness 
breaks  with  ease 

The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make : 
'twas  I. 

I had  been  wedded  wife,  I knew  man- 
kind, 

And  block’d  them  out ; but  these  men 
came  to  woo 

Your  Highness  — verily  I think  to 
win.” 

So  she,  and  turn'd  askance  a wintry 
eye: 

But  Ida  with  a voice,  that  like  a bell 

Toll’d  by  an  earthquake  in  a trembling 
tower, 

Rang  ruin,  answer'd  full  of  grief  and 
scorn. 

“ Fling  our  doors  wide ! all,  all,  not 
one,  but  all, 

Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul, 

Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend 
or  foe, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


431 


Shall  enter,  if  he  will.  Let  our  girls 
flit, 

Till  the  storm  die  ! but  had  you  stood 
by  us, 

The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from 
his  base 

Had  left  us  rock.  She  fain  would 
sting  us  too, 

But  shall  not.  Pass,  and  mingle  with 
your  likes. 

We  brook  no  further  insult  but  are 
gone.” 

She  turn'd ; the  very  nape  of  her 
white  neck 

Was  rosed  with  indignation : but  the 
Prince 

Her  brother  came ; the  king  her  father 
charm’d 

Her  wounded  soul  with  words : nor 
did  mine  own 

Refuse  her  proffer,  lastly  gave  his 
hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead 
weights,  and  bare 

Straight  to  the  doors : to  them  the 
doors  gave  way 

Groaning,  and  in  the  Vestal  entry 
shriek’d 

The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels: 

And  on  they  moved  and  gain’d  the 
hall,  and  there 

Rested . but  great  the  crush  was,  and 
each  base, 

To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 
drown’d 

In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 

Of  female  whisperers:  at  the  further 
end 

Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great 
cats 

Close  by  her,  like  supporters  on  a 
shield, 

Bow-back’d  with  fear : but  in  the  cen- 
tre stood 

The  common  men  with  rolling  eyes; 
amazed 

They  glared  upon  the  women,  and 
aghast 

The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent, 

save 


When  armor  clash’d  or  jingled, 
while  the  day, 

Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall, 
and  shot 

A flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and 
steel, 

That  o’er  the  statues  leapt  from  head 
to  head, 

Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas  on  the 
helm, 

Now  set  a wrathful  Dian’s  moon  on 
flame, 

And  now  and  then  an  echo  started 
up, 

And  shuddering  fled  from  room  to 
room,  and  died 

Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 

Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 

And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs, 
and  thro’ 

The  long-laid  galleries  past  a hundred 
doors 

To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from 
sound,  and  due 

To  languid  limbs  and  sickness ; left 
me  in  it ; 

And  others  otherwhere  they  laid ; and 
all 

That  afternoon  a sound  arose  of  hoof 

And  chariot,  many  a maiden  passing 
home 

Till  happier  times ; but  some  were  left 
of  those 

Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out 
and  in, 

From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside 
the  walls, 

Walked  at  their  will,  and  everything 
was  chang’d. 

VH. 

Ask  me  no  more:  the  moon  may  draw  tut 
sea; 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and 
take  the  shape 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 

But  O too  fond,  when  have  I answer’d  thee? 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  what  answer  should  1 
give? 

I love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye: 

Yet,  O my  friend,  I will  not  have  thee  die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I should  bid  thee  live,’ 
Ask  me  no  more. 


432 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY . 


Ask  me  no  more:  thy  fate  and  mine  are 
seal’d  : 

I strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain  : 

Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main : 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a touch  I yield; 

Ask  me  no  more. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated. 

So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hos- 
pital ; 

At  first  with  all  confusion:  by  and 

by 

Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other 
laws : 

A kindlier  influence  reign'd ; and 
everywhere 

Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 

Hung  round  the  sick : the  maidens 
came,  they  talk’d, 

They  sang,  they  read : till  she  not  fair 
began 

To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  be- 
came 

Her  former  beauty  treble ; and  to  and 
fro 

With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel 
offices, 

Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious 
act, 

And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they 
moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell, 

And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent 
with  shame. 

Old  studies  fail'd ; seldom  she  spoke  : 
but  oft 

Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone 
for  hours 

On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of 
men 

Darkening  her  female  field  : void  was 
her  use, 

And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a peak  to 
gaze 

O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a great 
black  cloud 

Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a wall 
of  night, 

Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge 
to  shore, 

And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from 

the  sand. 


And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn 
by  tarn 

Expunge  the  world : so  fared  she  gaz- 
ing there ; 

So  blacken'd  all  her  world  in  secret, 
blank 

And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain;  till 
down  she  came, 

And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among 
the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn’d ; and  morn  by 
morn  the  lark 

Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres, 
but  I 

Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life  : 

And  twilight  gloom'd;  and  broader- 
grown  the  bowers 

Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves, 
and  Heaven, 

Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ; but  I, 

Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could 
reach  me,  lay 

Quite  sunder’d  from  the  moving  Uni- 
verse, 

Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor 
the  hand 

That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in 
their  sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian : with 
her  oft, 

Melissa  came  ; for  Blanche  had  gone, 
but  left 

Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should 
keep 

Court-favor  • here  and  there  the  small 
bright  head, 

A light  of  healing,  glanced  about  the 
couch, 

Or  thro’  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 

Peep’d,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded 
man 

With  blush  and  smile,  a medicine  in 
themselves 

To  wile  the  length  from  languorous 
hours,  and  draw 

The  sting  from  pain ; nor  seem'd  it 
strange  that  soon 

He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fail 
charities 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


433 


Join'd  at  her  side ; nor  stranger  seem'd  I 
that  hearts 

5o  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  close  j 
in  love, 

Lhan  when  two  dewdrops  on  the  petal 
shake 

ro  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble 
deeper  down, 

told  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit 
obtain’d 

kt  first  with  Psyche.  Not  tho*  Blanche 
had  sworn 

rhat  after  that  dark  night  among  the 
fields 

She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own 
good  name ; 

Tot  tho’  he  built  upon  the  babe  re- 
stored ; 

Tor  tho’  she  liked  him,  yielded  she, 
but  fear’d 

To  incense  the  Head  once  more ; till 
on  a day 

Yhen  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 

seen  but  of  Psyche : on  her  foot  she 
hung 

V moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which 
her  face 

^ little  flush’d,  and  she  past  on ; but 
each 

Assumed  from  thence  a half -consent 
involved 

n stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were 
at  peace. 

Nor  only  these  : Love  in  the  sacred 
halls 

leld  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 

Vith  showers  of  random  sweet  on 
maid  and  man. 

lor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my 
claim, 

Tor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled  ; nor 

> . yet 

fid  those  twin  brothers,  risen  again 
and  whole  ; 

Tor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she 
sat: 


I Then  came  a change ; for  sometimes 
I would  catch 

| Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 

; And  fling  it  like  a viper  off,  and  shriek 

“You  are  not  Ida;  ciasp  it  once  again, 

And  gall  her  Ida,  tho’  I know  her  not, 

And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony, 

And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which 
seem’d  a truth  : 

And  still  she  fear’d  that  I should  lose 
my  mind, 

And  often  she  believed  that  I should 
die : 

Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care. 

And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary 
noons, 

And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark, 
when  clocks 

Throbb’d  thunder  thro'  the  palace 
floors,  or  call’d 

On  flying  Time  from  all  their  silver 
tongues  — 

And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier 
days, 

And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's 
grief, 

And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in 
heart  — 

And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken 
love, 

And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter'd 
dream, 

And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless 
hands, 

And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted 
cheek  — 

From  all  a closer  interest  flourish'd  up. 

Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last, 
to  these, 

Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung 
with  tears 

By  some  cold  morning  glacier;  frail 
at  first 

And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself, 

But  such  as  gather’d  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I woke  sane,  bu^  well-nigh  close 
to  death 

For  weakness  : it  was  evening  : silent 
light 

Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein 
i were  wrought 


434 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Two  grand  designs ; for  on  one  side 
arose 

The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and 
storm’d 

At  the  Oppian  law.  Titanic  shapes, 
they  cramm’d 

The  forum,  and  half-crush’d  among 
the  rest 

A dwarf-like  Cato  cower’d.  On  the 
other  side 

Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax;  be- 
hind, 

A train  of  dames : by  axe  and  eagle 
sat, 

With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in 
Roman  scowls. 

And  half  the  wolf’s-milk  curdled  in 
their  veins, 

The  fierce  triumvirs ; and  before  them 
paused 

Hortensia  pleading:  angry  was  her 
face. 

I saw  the  forms  : I knew  not  where 
I was : 

They  did  but  look  like  hollow  shows ; 
nor  more 

Sweet  Ida  : palm  to  palm  she  sat : the 
dew 

Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her 
shape 

And  rounder  seem’d : I moved : I 
sigh’d  : a touch 

Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon 
my  hand : 

Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 

Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what 
life  I had, 

And  like  a flower  that  cannot  all  un- 
fold, 

So  drench’d  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the 
sun, 

Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I on 
her 

Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter’d  whis- 
peringly : 

“ If  you  be,  what  I think  you,  some 
sweet  dream, 

1 would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself : 

But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I knew. 


I ask  you  nothing  : only,  if  a dream, 

Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.  I shall  dk 
. to-night. 

Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  J 
die.” 

I could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  ir 
trance, 

That  hears  his  burial  talk’d  of  by  hk 
friends, 

And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  noi 
make  one  sign, 

But  lies  and  dreads  his  doom.  Sh( 
turn’d  ; she  paused  ; 

She  stoop’d  ; and  out  of  languor  leap 
a cry; 

Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  o 
death ; 

And  I believed  that  in  the  living  work 

My  spirit  closed  with  Ida’s  at  the  lips 

Till  back  I fell,  and  from  mine  arm 
she  rose 

Glowing  all  over  noble  shame  ; and  al 

Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  j 
robe, 

And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  he 
mood 

Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  whei 
she  came 

From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  al 
with  love ; 

And  down  the  streaming  crysta 
dropt ; and  she 

Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides 

Naked,  a double  light  in  air  and  wave 

To  meet  her  Graces,  where  the, 
deck’d  her  out 

For  worship  without  end ; nor  end  c 
mine, 

Stateliest,  for  thee ! but  mute  sh 
glided  forth, 

Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I san 
and  slept, 

Fill’d  thro’  and  thro’  with  Love, 
happy  sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I woke:  she,  nea 
me,  held 

A volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land  : 

There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  sh 
read. 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY . 


433 


“Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the 
white ; 

Sor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk ; 
Sor  winks  the  gold  tin  in  the  porphyry  font : 
rhe  tire-fly  wakens : waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like  a 
ghost, 

And  like  a ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 

Bo  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me.” 

I heard  her  turn  the  page;  she 
found  a small 

Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low, 
she  read : 

“ Come  down,  O maid,  from  yonder  moun- 
tain height : 

What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd 
sang) 

In  height  and  cold,  the  spleudor  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and 
cease 

To  glide  a sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 

To  sit  a star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 

And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him ; by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 

Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats, 

Or  foxlike  in  the  vine ; nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  silver  horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors  : 

But  follow;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley ; let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and 
spill 

Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water- 
smoke, 

That  like  a broken  purpose  waste  in  air : 

So  waste  not  thou ; but  come ; for  all  the  vales 
Await  thee;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro’  the  lawn, 

1 The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 

And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees.” 

So  she  low-toned ; while  with  shut 
eyes  I lay 


Listening;  then  look’d.  Pale  was  the 
perfect  face; 

The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor’d: 
and  meek 

Seem’d  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the 
luminous  eyes, 

And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand. 
She  said 

Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had 
fail’d 

In  sweet  humility ; had  fail’d  in  all ; 

That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a block 

Left  in  the  quarry ; but  she  still  were 
loth, 

She  still  were  loth  to  yield  herself  to 
one 

That  wholly  scorn’d  to  help  their 
equal  rights 

Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbar- 
ous laws. 

She  pray’d  me  not  to  judge  their 
cause  from  her 

That  wrong’d  it,  sought  far  less  for 
truth  than  power 

In  knowledge : something  wild  within 
her  breast, 

A greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat 
her  down. 

And  she  had  nursed  me  there  from 
week  to  week : 

Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time. 
In  part 

It  was  ill  counsel  had  misled  the  gill 

To  vex  true  hearts : yet  was  she  but  a 
girl— 

“ Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a Queen 
of  farce! 

When  comes  another  such  ? never,  I 
think, 

Till  the  Sun  drop,  dead,  from  the 
signs.” 

Her  voice 

Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon 
her  hands, 

And  her  great  heart  thro’  all  the 
faultful  Past 

Went  sorrowing  in  a pause  I dared 
not  break; 

Till  notice  of  a change  in  the  dark 
world 

Was  lispt  about  the  acacias,  and  a 
bird. 


<*36 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 

Sent  from  a dewy  breast  a cry  for 
light : 

She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume 
fell. 

“Blame  not  thyself  too  much,”  I 
said,  “ nor  blame 

Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  bar- 
barous laws ; 

These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the 
world  till  now. 

Henceforth  thou  hast  a helper,  me, 
that  know 

The  woman’s  cause  is  man's : they 
rise  or  sink 

Together,  dwarf’d  or  godlike,  bond  or 
free : 

For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with 
man 

The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares 
with  man 

His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him 
to  one  goal, 

Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her 
hands  — 

If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miser- 
able, 

How  shall  men  grow  ? but  work  no 
more  alone ! 

Our  place  is  much : as  far  as  in  us  lies 

We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aid- 
ing her  — 

Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 

That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag 
her  down  — 

Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out 
of  all 

Within  her — let  her  make  herself 
her  own 

To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and 
be 

All  that  not  harms  distinctive  woman- 
hood. 

For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 

But  diverse : could  we  make  her  as 
the  man, 

Sweet  Love  were  slain  : his  dearest 
bond  is  this, 

Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they 
grow; 


The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of 
man ; 

He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral 
height, 

Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that 
throw  the  world  ; 

She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  child- 
ward  care, 

Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger 
mind ; 

Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words  ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of 
Time, 

Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ’d  in  all 
their  powers, 

Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing 
each, 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  ev’n  as  those  who 
love. 

Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back 
to  men  : 

Then  reign  the  world’s  great  bridals, 
chaste  and  calm : 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of 
human-kind. 

May  these  things  be ! ” 

Sighing  she  spoke  “I  fear 
They  will  not.” 

“ Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud 
watchword  rest 

Of  equal ; seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal : each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought 
in  thought, 

Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they 
grow, 

The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell’d  heart  beating,  with  one 
full  stroke, 

Life.” 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke  : “ A 

dream 

That  once  was  mine!  what  woman 
taught  you  this  ? ” 

“ Alone,”  I said,  “ from  earlier  than 
I know. 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


437 


[mmersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of 
the  world, 

I loved  the  woman  : he,  that  doth  not, 
lives 

A drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet 
self, 

Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than 
death, 

Or  keeps  his  wing’d  affections  dipt 
with  crime  : 

Yet  was  there  one  thro’  whom  I loved 
her,  one 

Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  house- 
hold ways, 

Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender 
wants, 

No  Angel,  but  a dearer  being,  all 
dipt 

fn  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Para- 
dise, 

Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and 
men, 

YYho  look’d  all  native  to  her  place, 
and  yet 

On  tiptoe  seem’d  to  touch  upon  a 
sphere 

Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male 
minds  perforce 

Sway’d  to  her  from  their  orbits  as 
they  moved, 

And  girdled  her  with  music.  Happy 
he 

With  such  a mother  ! faith  in  woman- 
kind 

Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all 
things  high 

Gomes  easy  to  him,  and  tho’  he  trip 
and  fall 

He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay.” 

“ But  I,” 

Said  Ida,  tremulously,  “ so  all  un- 
like — 

[t  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself 
with  words : 

This  mother  is  your  model.  I have 
heard 

] 3f  your  strange  doubts : they  well 
might  be  : I seem 

A mockery  to  my  own  self.  Never, 

3 Prince ; 

You  cannot  love  me.” 

“ Nay  but  thee,”  I said 


" From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pic- 
tured eyes, 

Ere  seen  I loved,  and  loved  thee  seen, 
and  saw 

Thee  woman  thro’  the  crust  of  iron 
moods 

That  mask’d  thee  from  men’s  rever* 
ence  up,  and  forced 

Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boy- 
hood: now, 

Giv’n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro5 
thee. 

Indeed  I love : the  new  day  comes,  the 
light 

Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for 
faults 

Lived  over : lift  thine  eyes ; my  doubts 
are  dead, 

My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows 
the  change, 

This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill’d 
it.  Dear. 

Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on 
mine, 

Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind 
half-world ; 

Approach  and  fear  not ; breathe  upon 
my  brows; 

In  that  fine  air  I tremble,  all  the  past 

Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour, 
and  this 

Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to- 
come 

Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  wood- 
land reels 

Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds. 
Forgive  me, 

I waste  my  heart  in  signs:  let  be.  My 
bride, 

My  wife,  my  life.  O we  will  walk  this 
world, 

Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 

And  so  thro’  those  dark  gates  across 
the  wild 

That  no  man  knows.  Indeed  I love 
thee : come, 

Yield  thyself  up : my  hopes  and  thine 
are  one  : 

Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and 
thyself ; 

Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and. 

trust  to  me.” 


438 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


CONCLUSION. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I give 
you  all 

The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it 
rose : 

The  words  are  mostly  mine ; for  when 
we  ceased 

There  came  a minute’s  pause,  and 
Walter  said, 

“ I wish  she  had  not  yielded ! ’’  then  to 
me, 

What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically  ! ” 

So  pray’d  the  men,  the  women : I gave 
assent : 

Yet  how  to  bind  the  scatter’d  scheme 
of  seven 

Together  in  one  sheaf  ? What  style 
could  suit  % 

The  men  required  that  I should  give 
throughout 

The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque, 

With  which  we  banter’d  little  Lilia 
first : 

The  women  — and  perhaps  they  felt 
their  power, 

For  something  in  the  ballads  which 
they  sang, 

Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat, 

Had  ever  seem’d  to  wrestle  with  bur- 
lesque, 

And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a solemn 
close  — 

They  hated  banter,  wish’d  for  some- 
thing real, 

A gallant  fight,  a noble  princess  — 
why 

Not  make  her  true-heroic  — true- 
sublime  ? 

Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the 
close  ? 

Which  yet  with  such  a framework 
scarce  could  be. 

Then  rose  a little  feud  betwixt  the 
two, 

Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists  : 

And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please 
them  both, 

And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 

I moved  as  in  a strange  diagonal, 

And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself 
nor  them. 


But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took 
no  part 

In  our  dispute  : the  sequel  of  the  tale 

Had  touch’d  her ; and  she  sat,  she 
pluck’d  the  grass, 

She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking  : last, 
she  fixt 

A showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and 
said, 

“ You  — tell  us  what  we  are”  who 
might  have  told, 

For  she  was  cramm’d  with  theories 
out  of  books, 

But  that  there  rose  a shout : the  gates 
were  closed 

At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarm, 
ing  now, 

To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden 
rails. 

So  I and  some  went  out  to  these  : 
we  climb’d 

The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turn- 
ing saw 

The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and 
half 

Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a land 
of  peace ; 

Gray  halls  alone  among  their  massive 
groves ; 

Trim  hamlets  ; here  and  there  a rustic 
tower 

Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths 
of  wheat; 

The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a stream  : 
the  seas ; 

A red  sail,  or  a white;  and  far  be- 
yond, 

Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts 
of  France. 

“ Look  there,  a garden  ! ” said  my 
college  friend, 

The  Tory  member’s  elder  son,  “ and 
there ! 

God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps 
her  off, 

And  keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within 
herself, 

A nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the 
ruled  — 

Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a 
faith, 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


439 


Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves 
have  made, 

Some  patient  force  to  change  them 
when  we  will, 

Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the 
crowd  — 

But  yonder,  whiff  ! there  comes  a sud- 
den heat, 

The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his 
head, 

The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will 
not  fight, 

The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and 
stab, 

A kingdom  topples  over  with  a shriek 

Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls 
the  world 

In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our 
own ; 

~Re volts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 

No  graver  than  a schoolboys’  barring 
out ; 

Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they 
are. 

Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in 
them, 

Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise 
a dream 

As  some  of  theirs  — God  bless  the 
narrow  seas ! 

I wish  they  were  a whole  Atlantic 
broad.” 

“ Have  patience,”  I replied,  “our- 
selves are  full 

Of  social  wrong;  and  maybe  wildest 
dreams 

Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the 
truth : 

For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy 
crowd, 

The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a 

( faith, 

This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a 
child 

Yet  in  the  go-cart.  Patience ! Give 
it  time 

To  learn  its  limbs : there  is  a hand 
that  guides.” 

In  such  discourse  we  gain’d  the 
garden  rails, 


And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where 
he  stood, 

Before  a tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks, 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head, 
and  look’d 

No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 

A great  broad-shoulder’d  genial  Eng- 
lishman, 

A lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 

A patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 

A pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on 
grain, 

A quarter-sessions  chairman,  abler 
none ; 

Fair-hair’d  and  redder  than  a windy 
morn ; 

Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now 
him,  of  those 

That  stood  the  nearest  — now  ad 
dress’d  to  speech  — 

Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such 
as  closed 

Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for 
the  year 

To  follow:  a shout  rose  again,  and 
made 

The  long  line  of  the  approaching 
rookery  swerve 

From  the  broad  elms,  and  shook  the 
branches  of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro’  distant  ferns, 
and  rang 

Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset;  O,  a 
shout 

More  joyful  than  the  city -roar  that 
hails 

Premier  or  king ! Why  should  not 
these  great  Sirs 

Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times 
a year 

To  let  the  people  breathe  ? So  thrice 
they  cried, 

I likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream’d 
away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey, 
and  sat  on, 

So  much  the  gathering  darkness 
charm’d  : we  sat 

But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless 
reverie, 


440 


Jto/k  (JO* 


Perchance  upon  the  future  man:  the 
walls 

Blacken’d  about  us,  bats  wheel'd,  and 
owls  whoop'd, 

And  gradually  the  powers  of  the 
night, 

That  range  above  the  region  of  the 
wind, 

Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight 
broke  them  up 


Thro'  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the 
worlds, 

Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven! 
of  Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly, 

Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of 
Sir  Ralph 

From  those  rich  silks,  and  home  well- 
pleased  we  went. 


MAUD;  A MONODRAMA. 


PART  I. 

I. 

i. 

I hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 

Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  blood-red  heath, 

The  red-ribb’d  ledges  drip  with  a silent  horror  of  blood. 

And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask’d  her,  answers  “ Death." 

ii. 

For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a body  was  found, 

His  who  had  given  me  life  — O father  ! O God ! was  it  well  ? — 

Mangled,  and  flatten’d,  and  crush’d,  and  dinted  into  the  ground : 

There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell. 

in. 

Did  he  fling  himself  down  ? who  knows  ? for  a vast  speculation  had  fail’d, 
And  ever  he  mutter’d  and  madden’d,  and  ever  wann’d  with  despair, 

And  out  he  walk’d  when  the  wind  like  a broken  worldling  wail’d,  / 

And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin’d  woodlands  drove  thro’  the  air. 

IV. 

I remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stirr’d 

By  a shuffled  step,  by  a dead  weight  trail’d,  by  a whisper’d  fright, 

And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a shock  on  my  heart  as  I heard 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a mother  divide  the  shuddering  night. 


Villany  somewhere!  whose'?  One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 

Not  he  : his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  maintained: 

But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 

Dropt  off  gorged  from  a scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  and  drain’d. 

VI. 

Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace  ? we  have  made  them  a curse, 
Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own; 

And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 

Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  his  own  hearthstone  ? 


MAUD. 


441 


VII. 


But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind. 

When  who  but  a fool  would  have  faith  in  a tradesman  s ware  or  his  word  . 
Is  it  peace  or  war  ? Civil  war,  as  I think,  and  that  of  a kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 


VIII. 

Sooner  or  later  I too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age  — why  not  ? I have  neither  hope  nor  trust; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a millstone,  set  my  face  as  a flint, 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die  : who  knows  ? we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


IX. 

Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by. 

When  the  poor  are  hovell’d  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine. 

When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie ; 

Peace  in  her  vineyard  — yes ! — but  a company  forges  the  wine. 

x. 

And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian’s  head, 

Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife, 

And  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread, 

And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life, 

XI. 

And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm’d,  for  the  villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights,  . 

While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To  pestle  a poison’d  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 

XII. 

When  a Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a burial  fee, 

And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a pile  of  children’s  bones, 

Is  it  peace  or  war  1 better,  war ! loud  war  by  land  and  by  sea, 

War  with  a thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a hundred  thrones. 

XIII. 

For  I trust  if  an  enemy’s  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill. 

And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam. 

That  the  smooth-faced  snubnosed  rogue  would  leap  from  his  counter  and  till, 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home. 

XIV. 

What \ am  I raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood'? 

Must  I too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a horror  of  shatter’d  limbs  and  a wretched  swindler’s  lie  % 


442 


MAUD. 


xv. 

Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  ? there  was  love  in  the  passionate  shriek, 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave  — 
Wrapt  in  a cloak,  as  I saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God,  as  he  used  to  rave. 

XVI. 

I am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I stay  1 can  a sweeter  chance  ever  come  to  me  here  ? 

0,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain, 

Were  it  not  wise  if  I fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  fear  ? 

XVII. 

Workmen  up  at  the  Hall ! — they  are  coming  back  from  abroad; 

The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a millionaire  : 

I have  heard,  I know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud ; 

I play’d  with  the  girl  when  a child ; she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 

XVIII. 

Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 

Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all,  — 

XIX. 

What  is  she  now  ? My  dreams  are  bad.  She  may  bring  me  a curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor ; she  will  let  me  alone. 

Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I will  bury  myself  in  myself,  and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 

II. 

Long  have  I sigh’d  for  a calm : God  grant  I may  find  it  at  last ! 

It  will  never  be  broken  by  Maud,  she  has  neither  savor  nor  salt, 

But  a cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I found  when  her  carriage  past, 
Perfectly  beautiful : let  it  be  granted  her : where  is  the  fault  ? 

All  that  I saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 

Dead  perfection,  no  more  ; nothing  more,  if  it  had  not  been 
For  a chance  of  travel,  a paleness,  an  hour’s  defect  of  the  rose, 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a little  too  ripe,  too  full, 

Or  the  least  little  delicate  aquiline  curve  in  a sensitive  nose, 

From  which  I escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 

III. 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek, 

Breaking  a slumber  in  which  all  spleenful  folly  was  drown’d, 

Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek, 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a gloom  profound ; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 


MAUD . 


443 


Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a sound, 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Growing  ana  fading  and  growing,  till  I could  bear  it  no  more, 

But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground, 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 

Now  to  the  scream  of  a madden’d  beach  dragg’d  down  by  the  wave. 
Walk’d  in  a wintry  wind  by  a ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 

rv. 


A million  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I sit-— ah,  wherefore  cannot  I be 
Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the  bountiful  season  bland, 

When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a softer  clime, 
Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a crescent  of  sea, 

The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land  ? 

ii. 

Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small ! 

And  yet  bubbles  o’er  like  a city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite ; 

And  Jack  on  his  ale-house  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a Czar ; 

And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I see  her  pass  like  a light ; 

But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star ! 

hi. 

When  have  I bow’d  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race  ? 

I met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I bow  d : 

I bow’d  to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor ; 

But  the  fire  of  a foolish  pride  flash’d  over  her  beautiful  face. 

0 child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud ; 

Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I am  nameless  and  poor. 

IV. 

1 keep  but  a man  and  a maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal ; 

I know  it,  and  smile  a hard-set  smile,  like  a stoic,  or  like 

A wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way : 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear’d  by  the  shrike. 
And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I sit  is  a world  of  plunder  and  prey, 

v. 

We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower ; 

Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a game 
That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed  ? 

Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour ; 

We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a brother  s shame  ; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a little  breed. 


444 


MAUD. 


VI. 

A monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
Eor  him  did  his  high  sun  llame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran 
And  lie  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature’s  crowning  race. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth, 
So  many  a million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man:* 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ? is  he  not  too  base  ? 


VII 

The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain. 

An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a spirit  bounded  and  po’or ; 

The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl’d  into  folly  and  vice. 

I would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a temperate  brain ; 

For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a garden  of  spice. 


VIII. 

For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 

Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them  about  ? 
Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 

Shall  I weep  if  a Poland  fall  ? shall  I shriek  if  a Hungary  fail  * 

Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout  ? 

I have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 

IX. 

Be  mine  a philosopher’s  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways, 

Where  if  I cannot  be  gay  let  a passionless  peace  be  my  lot, 

Far-off  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied  in  the  hubbub  of  lies; 

From  the  long-neck’d  geese  of  the  world  that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise 
Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not, 

Where  each  man  walks  with  his  head  in  a cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 

x. 


And  most  of  all  would  I flee  from  the  cruel  madness  of  love, 

The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 

Ah  Maud,  you  milk-white  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a wife. 
Your  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her  image  in  marble  above; 
Your  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will ; 


on  the  roses  and 

V. 

i. 

A voice  by  the  cedar  tree 
In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to 
me, 

A passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 
A martial  song  like  a trumpet’s  call ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 


in  the  lilies  of  life. 

In  thehappy  morningof  life  and  of  M ay, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 

ii. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the 
sunny  sky, 


MAUD. 


445 


And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and 
her  grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 
cannot  die, 

Till  I well  could  weep  for  a time  so 
sordid  and  mean,  . 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

hi. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice ! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the 
mind 

With  a joy  in  which  I cannot  rejoice, 
A glory  I shall  not  find. 

Still ! I will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me 
a choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall 
before 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and 
adore, 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor 
kind, 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a voice. 

VI. 

i. 

Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale. 

No  sun,  but  a wannish  glare 
In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 
And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are 
bow’d 

Caught  and  cuff’d  by  the  gale  : 

I had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 

ii. 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I meet 
Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn’d 
On  the  blossom’d  gable-ends 
At  the  head  of  the  village  street, 
Whom  but  Maud  should  I meet  ? 

And  she  touch’d  my  hand  with  a smile 
so  sweet, 

She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a courtesy  not  return’d. 

hi. 

And  thus  a delicate  spark 
Of  glowing  and  growing  light 
Thro’  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dar^ 


Kept  itself  warm  in  the  heart  of  my 
dreams, 

Ready  to  burst  in  a color’d  flame  ; 

Till  at  last  when  the  morning  came 
In  a cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 
But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 

IV. 

What  if  with  her  sunny  hair, 

And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold, 

She  meant  to  weave  me  a snare 
Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 
Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 
To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 

To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a silken  net 
And  fawn  at  a victor’s  feet. 

v. 

Ah,  what  shall  I be  at  fifty 
Should  Nature  keep  me  alive. 

If  I find  the  world  so  bitter 
When  I am  but  twenty-five  ? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a cheat, 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem’d, 

And  her  smile  were  all  that  I dream  d, 
Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 
But  a smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

VI. 

What  if  tho’  her  eye  seem’d  full 
Of  a kind  intent  to  me, 

What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he, 

That  jewell’d  mass  of  millinery, 

That  oil’d  and  curl’d  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence, 
Her  brother,  from  whom  I keep  aloof. 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 
To  mask,  tho’  but  in  his  own  behoof, 
With  a glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn  — 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign’d, 
And  a moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes, 
That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings 
shake 

In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 

A wretched  vote  may  be  gain’d. 

VII. 

For  a raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side, 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch 
and  ward, 


446 


MAUD. 


Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 

Yea,  too,  myself  from  myself  I guard, 
For  often  a man’s  own  angry  pride 
Is  cap  and  bells  for  a fool. 

VIII. 

Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 
Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood, 
For  am  I not,  am  I not,  here  alone 
So  many  a summer  since  she  died, 

My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and 
good? 

Living  alone  in  an  empty  house, 

Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood, 
Where  I hear  the  dead  at  midday 
moan, 

And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot 
mouse, 

And  my  own  sad  name  in  corners 
cried, 

When  the  shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is 
thrown 

About  its  echoing  chambers  wide, 

Till  a morbid  hate  and  horror  have 
grown 

Of  a world  in  which  I have  hardly 
mixt, 

And  a morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 
On  a heart  half-turn’d  to  stone. 

IX. 

0 heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and 

caught 

By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 

For  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,  I fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of 
love, 

That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and 
trip 

When  I saw  the  treasured  splendor, 
her  hand, 

Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove, 
And  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip  ? 

x. 

1 have  play’d  with  her  when  a child; 
She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I may  be  beguiled 
By  some  coquettish  deceit. 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a cheat, 


If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem’d, 
And  her  smile  had  all  that  I dream’d, 
Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 
But  a smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

VII. 

i. 

Did  I hear  it  half  in  a doze 
Long  since,  I know  not  where  ? 
Did  I dream  it  an  hour  ago, 

When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair  ? 

ii. 

Men  were  drinking  together, 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me  ; 

“ Well,  if  it  prove  a girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty  : so  let  it  be.” 

hi. 

Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a boy’s  delight, 

Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  night  ? 

IV. 

Strange,  that  I hear  two  men, 
Somewhere,  talking  of  me  ; 

“ Well,  if  it  prove  a girl,  my  boy 
Will  have  plenty;  so  let  it  be.” 

VIII. 

She  came  to  the  village  church, 

And  sat  by  a pillar  alone ; 

An  angel  watching  an  urn 
Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone; 

And  once,  but  dnce,  she  lifted  her 
eyes, 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely 
blush’d 

To  find  they  were  met  by  my  own ; 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat 
stronger 

And  thicker,  until  I heard  no  longer 
The  snowy-banded,  dilettante, 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone; 

And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused 
and  sigh’d 

“No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride.” 


MAUD. 


447 


IX. 

I was  walking  a mile. 

More  than  a mile  from  the  shore, 
The  sun  look’d  out  with  a smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor, 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land, 

Rapidly  riding  far  away, 

She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  flash’d  in  the  sun, 

Down  by  the  hill  I saw  them  ride, 

In  a moment  they  were  gone : 

Like  a sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 

Then  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 

X. 

i. 

Sick,  am  I sick  of  a jealous  dread  ? 
Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new-made  lord,  whose  splendor 
plucks 

The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager’s 
head  ? 

Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died, 
Gone  to  a blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And  laying  his  trams  in  a poison’d 
gloom 

Wrought,  till  he  crept  from  a gutted 
mine 

Master  of  half  a servile  shire, 

And  left  his  coal  all  turn’d  into  gold 
To  a grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line, 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire, 
Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men 
, adore, 

And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 
j New  as  his  title,  built  last  year, 

There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a cockney  ear. 
ii. 

What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out  ? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her 
side 


Bound  for  the  Hall,  I am  sure  was  he  : 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I think  for  a 
bride. 

Blithe  would  her  brother’s  acceptance 
be. 

Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt 
To  a lord,  a captain,  a padded  shape, 
A bought  commission,  a waxen  face, 

A rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape  — 
Bought  ? what  is  it  he  cannot  buy  ? 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal, 
base, 

A wounded  thing  with  a rancorous  cry, 
At  war  with  myself  and  a wretched 
race, 

Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 
hi. 

Last  week  came  one  to  the  county 
town, 

To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down, 
And  play  the  game  of  the  despot  kings, 
Tho’  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice 
as  well : 

This  broad-brimm’d  hawker  of  holy 
things, 

Whose  ear  is  cramm’d  with  his  cotton, 
and  rings 

Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his 
pence, 

This  huckster  put  down  war ! can  he 
tell 

Whether  war  be  a cause  or  a conse- 
quence ? 

Put  down  the  passions  that  make 
earth  Hell ! 

Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
Jealousy,  down ! cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear ; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside. 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear, 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 

iv. 

I wish  I could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy ! 

I might  persuade  myself  then 
She  would  not  do  herself  this  great 
wrong, 

To  take  a wanton  dissolute  boy 
For  a man  and  leader  of  men. 


448 


MAUD. 


v. 

Ah  God,  for  a man  with  heart,  head, 
hand, 

Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones 
gone 

For  ever  and  ever  by, 

One  still  strong  man  in  a blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat  — one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 

VI. 

And  ah  for  a man  to  arise  in  me, 

That  the  man  I am  may  cease  to  be ! 

XI. 

i. 

0 let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 

What  matter  if  I go  mad, 

1 shall  have  had  my  day. 

ii. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 

Not  close  and  darken  above  me 
Before  I am  quite  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 
To  a life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I shall  have  had  my  day. 

XII. 

i. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

They  were  crying  and  calling. 

ii. 

Where  was  Maud  ? in  our  wood ; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her. 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 

hi. 

Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Ringing  thro’  the  valleys, 

Maud  is  here,  here,  here 
In  among  the  lilies. 


IV. 

I kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 

She  took  the  kiss  sedately; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen, 

But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

v. 

I to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favor! 

0 Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

VI. 

1 know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 

For  her  feet  have  touch’d  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

VII. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 
Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud  ? 

One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

VIII. 

Look,  a horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charley  snarling, 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 
You  are  not  her  darling. 

XIII. 

i. 

Scorn’d,  to  be  scorn’d  by  one  that  I 
scorn, 

Is  that  a matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 
That  a calamity  hard  to  be  borne  ? 
Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 
Fool  that  I am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride! 
I past  him,  I was  crossing  his  lands ; 
He  stood  on  the  path  a little  aside ; 
His  face,  as  I grant,  in  spite  of  spite, 
Has  a broad-blown  comeliness,  red 
and  white, 

And  six  feet  two,  as  I think,  he  stands ; 
But  his  essences  turn’d  the  live  air  sick, 
And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn’d  itself  on  his  breast  and  his 
hands. 

ii. 

Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 

I long’d  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship ; 


MAUD . 


449 


But  while  I past  he  was  humming  an 
air, 

Stopt,  and  then  with  a riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a glossy  boot, 

And  curving  a contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a stony  British  stare. 

hi. 

Why  sits  he  here  in  his  father's  chair  ? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place  : 
Shall  I believe  him  ashamed  to  be 
seen  ? 

For  only  once,  in  the  village  street, 
Last  year,  I caught  a glimpse  of  his 
face, 

A gray  old  wolf  and  a lean. 

Scarcely,  now,  would  I call  him  a 
cheat ; 

For  then,  perhaps,  as  a child  of  deceit, 
She  might  by  a true  descent  be  untrue ; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet  - 
Tho’  I fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side ; 
Her  mother  has  been  a thing  complete, 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin . 

Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  heap’d  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race, 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 

IV. 

Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be\ 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me  2. 

XIV. 

i. 

Maud  has  a garden  of  roses 
And  iilies  fair  on  a lawn ; 

There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower, 

And  thither  I climb’d  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden-gate ; 

A lion  ramps  at  the  top, 

He  is  claspt  by  a passion-flower. 

ii. 

Maud’s  own  little  oak-room 
(Which  Maud,  like  a precious  stone 


Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom, 
Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 
She  sits  by  her  music  and  books 
And  her  brother  lingers  late 
With  a roystering  company)  looks 
Upon  Maud’s  own  garden-gate : 

And  I thought  as  I stood,  if  a hand,, 
as  white 

As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 
On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my 
Delight 

Had  a sudden  desire,  like  a glorious 
ghost,  to  glide, 

Like  a beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven, 
down  to  my  side, 

There  were  but  a step  to  be  made. 
hi. 

The  fancy  flatter'd  my  mind, 

And  again  seem'd  overbold ; 

Now  I thought  that  she  cared  for  me 
Now  I thought  she  was  kind 
Only  because  she  was  cold. 

IV. 

I heard  no  sound  where  I stood 
But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 
Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood; 
Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as 
it  swell'd 

Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn  , 
But  I look’d,  and  round,  all  round  the 
house  I beheld 

The  death-white  curtain  drawn , 

Felt  a horror  over  me  creep, 

Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 
Knew  that  the  death-white  curtain 
meant  but  sleep, 

Yet  I shudder’d  and  thought  like  a 
fool  of  the  sleep  of  death. 

XV. 

So  dark  a mind  within  me  dwells, 

And  I make  myself  such  evil  cheer, 
That  if  / be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  some  one  else  may  have  much 
to  fear ; 

But  if  I be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  I should  be  to  myself  more 
dear. 


450 


MAUD. 


Shail  I not  take  care  of  all  that  I think, 
Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink 
If  I be  dear, 

If  I be  dear  to  some  one  else. 


XVI. 

i. 

This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 
The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight ; 
And  so  that  he  find  what  he  went  to 
seek, 

And  fulsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and 
drown 

His  heart  in  the  gross  mud-honey  of 
town, 

He  may  stay  for  a year  who  has  gone 
for  a week : 

But  this  is  the  day  when  I must  speak, 
And  I see  my  Oread  coming  down, 

0 this  is  the  day ! 

0 beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I dare  to  look  her  way ; 

Think  I may  hold  dominion  sweet, 
Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her 

breast, 

And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender 
dread, 

From  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her 
feet 

To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as 
the  crest 

Of  a peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head, 
And  she  knows  it  not : 0,  if  she  knew  it, 
To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it. 

1 know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps  from  madness,  perhaps  from 

crime, 

Perhaps  from  a selfish  grave. 


hi. 

Catch  not  my  breath,  O clamorous 
heart, 

Let  not  my  tongue  be  a thrall  to  my 
eye, 

For  I must  tell  her  before  we  part, 

I must  tell  her,  or  die. 


XVII. 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 

Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a rose  her  mouth 
When  the  happy  Yes 
Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 
Ove~  glowing  ships ; 

Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest, 

Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro’  the  West; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 
By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 
Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 
Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro’  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 

Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a rose  her  mouth. 


XVIII. 


ii. 

What,  if  she  be  fasten'd  to  this  fool 
lord, 

Hare  I bid  her  abide  by  her  word  ? 
Should  I love  her  so  well  if  she 
Had  given  her  word  to  a thing  so  low  ? 
Shall  I love  her  as  well  if  she 
Can  break  her  word,  were  it  even  for 
me  ? 

I trust  that  it  is  not  so. 


i. 

I have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my 
only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my 
blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish 'd-f or 
end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  prom 
ised  good. 


MAUD . 


451 


ii. 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels 
pattering  talk 

Seem’d  her  light  foot  along  the 
garden  walk. 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she 
comes  once  more ; 

But  even  then  I heard  her  close  the 

door,  i ^ 

The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and 
she  is  gone. 

in. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have 
deceased. 

O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 
delicious  East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho’  thy  limbs  have  here 
increased, 

Upon  a pastoral  slope  as  fair, 

And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey’d  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed 
my  fate, 

And  made  my  life  a perfumed  altar- 
flame; 

And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must 
have  spread 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old, 
thy  great 

Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden, 

Shadowing  the  snow-limb’d  Eve  from 
whom  she  came. 

IV. 

Here  will  I lie,  while  these  long 
branches  sway, 

And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a 
happy  day 

Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 

As  when  it  seem’d  far  better  to  be 
born 

To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden  d 
hand. 


Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to 
understand 

A sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron 
skies, 

Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes. 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and 
brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 

v. 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a 

pearl  , U 1 

The  countercharm  of  space  and  hol- 
low sky,  , , , 

And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would 
die 

To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one 
simple  girl. 

VI. 

Would  die ; for  sullen-seeming  Death 
may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet  ’tis  sweet 
to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to 
pass ; 

. It  seems  that  I am  happy,  that  to  me 
A livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the 
grass, 

A purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

VII. 

Not  die;  but  live  a life  of  truest 
breath, 

And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with 
mortal  wrongs. 

O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in 
drinking-songs, 

Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust 
of  death  q. 

Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long 
loving  kiss, 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer 
this  1 

“ The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven 
here 

With  dear  Love’s  tie,  makes  Lo^e 
himself  more  dear.” 


452 


MAUD . 


vm. 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the 
swell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder 
bay  ? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver 
knell 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in 
bridal  white, 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses 
Play; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed 
her  sight 

And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and 
stol’n  away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless 
fancies  dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden 
day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace 
affright ! 

Dear  heart,  I feel  with  thee  the 
drowsy  spell. 

My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 

My  own  heart’s  heart,  my  ownest  own, 
farewell ; 

It  is  but  for  a little  space  I go  : 

And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and 
fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the 
night ! 

Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to 
the  glow 

Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look 
so  bright  ? 

I have  climb’d  nearer  out  of  lonelv 
Hell. 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things 
below, 

Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than 
heart  can  tell, 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent 
woe 

That  seems  to  draw  — but  it  shall  not 
be  so : 

Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

XIX. 

i. 

Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night, 

Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


ii. 

My  dream  ? do  I dream  of  bliss  ? 

I have  walk’d  awake  with  Truth. 

0 when  did  a morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 
Darken’d  watching  a mother  decline 
And  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and 

mine: 

For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I ? 
Yet  so  did  I let  my  freshness  die. 

hi. 

1 trust  that  I did  not  talk 
To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 
(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 
I have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless 

things) 

But  I trust  that  I did  not  talk, 

Not  touch  on  her  father’s  sin  : 

I am  sure  I did  but  speak 
Of  my  mother’s  faded  cheek 
When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin, 

That  I felt  she  was  slowly  dying 
Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass’d  with 
debt : 

For  how  often  I caught  her  with  eyes 
all  wet, 

Shaking  her  head  at  her  son  and  sigh- 
ing 

A world  of  trouble  within ! 

IV. 

And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 
To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 
As  one  scarce  less  forlorn, 

Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 
From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share 
her  heart, 

And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 

The  household  Fury  sprinkled  with 
blood 

By  which  our  houses  are  torn  : 

How  strange  was  what  she  said, 

When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 
Hung  over  her  dying  bed  — 

That  Maud’s  dark  father  and  mine 
Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other, 
Betrothed  us  over  their  wine, 

On  the  day  when  Maud  was  born; 
Seal’d  her  mine  from  her  first  sweet 
* breath. 


MAUD. 


453 


Mine,  mine  by  a right,  from  birth  till 
death. 

Mine,  mine  — our  fathers  have  sworn. 

v. 

But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a 
heat 

To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a 
bond, 

That,  if  left  uncancell'd,  had  been  so 
sweet : 

And  none  of  us  thought  of  a some- 
thing beyond, 

A desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of 
the  child, 

As  it  were  a duty  done  to  the  tomb, 

To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  re- 
conciled ; 

And  I was  cursing  them  and  my 
doom, 

And  letting  a dangerous  thought  run 
wild 

While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant 
gloom 

Of  foreign  churches  — I see  her 
there,  ' 

Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a 
prayer 

To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled ! 

VI. 

But  then  what  a flint  is  he ! 

Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 

I find  whenever  she  touch'd  on  me 
This  brother  had  laugh'd  her  down, 
And  at  last,  when  each  came  home, 
He  had  darken’d  into  a frown, 

Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 
To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  be 
fore  ; 

And  this  was  what  had  redden'd  her 
cheek 

When  I bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 

VII. 

Yet  Maud,  altho'  not  blind 

To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 

I see  she  cannot  but  love  him, 

And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind, 

And  wishes  me  to  approve  him, 

And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 


Sick  once,  with  a fear  of  worse, 

Then  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and 
play, 

Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and 
day, 

And  tended  her  like  a nurse. 

VIII. 

Kind  7 but  the  deathbed  desire 
Spurn’d  by  this  heir  of  the  liar  — 
Rough  but  kind  7 yet  I know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this, 
That  he  plots  against  me  still. 

Kind  to  Maud  7 that  were  not  amiss. 
Well,  rough  but  kind;  why  let  it  be 
so : 

For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will  7 

IX. 

For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true, 

As  long  as  my  life  endures 
I feel  I shall  owe  you  a debt, 

That  I never  can  hope  to  pay ; 

And  if  ever  I should  forget 
That  I owe  this  debt  to  you 
And  for  your  sweet  sake  to  yours  j 
( ) then,  what  then  shall  I say  ? — 

If  ever  I should  forget, 

May  God  make  me  more  wretched 
Than  ever  I have  been  yet ! 

x. 

So  now  I have  sworn  to  bury 
All  this  dead  body  of  hate,  . 

I feel  so  free  and  so  clear 
By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight, 

That  I should  grow  light-headed,  I 
fear, 

Fantastically  merry ; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a 
blight 

On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to- 
night. 

XX. 

i. 

Strange,  that  I felt  so  gay, 

Strange,  that  7 tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy  ; 

The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him,— 


454 


MAUD . 


She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him  — 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly: 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due  1 
Or  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners, 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses  ? 
Now  I know  her  but  in  two, 

Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather. 

Or  the  frock  and  gipsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer ; 

For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 


ii. 

But  to-morrow,  if  we  live, 

Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near ; 

And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels. 

And  the  bird  of  prey  will  hover, 

And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

hi. 

A grand  political  dinner 
To  the  men  of  many  acres, 

A gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A dinner  and  then  a dance 
For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers. 
And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 
At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

IV. 

For  I am  not  invited, 

But,  with  the  Sultan’s  pardon, 

I am  all  as  well  delighted, 

For  I know  her  own  rose-garden, 

And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over ; 

And  then,  oh  then,  come  out  to  me 
For  a minute,  but  for  a minute, 

Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 

Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 


XXI. 

Rivulet  crossing  my  ground. 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the 
Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I found, 
Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me. 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 
Here  at  the  head  of  a tinkling  fall, 
And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea ; 

O Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 
(If  I read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a blushing  mission  to  me, 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  “ Ah,  be 
Among  the  roses  to-night.” 


XXII. 


A 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted 
abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 


ii. 

For  a breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that 
she  loves 

On  a bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she 
loves, 

To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 
hi. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 

All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine 
stirr’d 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune ; 

Till  a silence  fell  with  the  waking 
bird, 

And  a hush  with  the  setting  moon. 


I said  to  the  lily,  “ There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her 
alone  ? 


MA  UD. 


455 


She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.” 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 

Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the 
stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

Y. 

I said  to  the  rose,  “The  brief  night 
goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are 
those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,”  so  I sware  to 
the  rose, 

“ For  ever  and  ever,  mine.” 

VI. 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into 
my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash’d  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I stood, 
For  I heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on 
to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

VII. 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have 
left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we 
meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

VIII. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the 
lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for 
your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 

The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 
They  sigh’d  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

IX. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of 
girls, 

Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 


In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of 
pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over 
with  curls, 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 
x. 

There  has  fallen  a splendid  tear 
From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 

The  red  rose  cries,  “ She  is  near,  she 
is  near ; ” 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  “ She  is 
late ; ” 

The  larkspur  listens,  “ I hear,  I hear ; ” 
And  the  lily  whispers,  “ I wait.” 

XI. 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a tread, 

My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 
Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I lain  for  a century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her 
feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

PART  II. 

I. 

i. 

“ The  fault  was  mine,  the  fault  was 
mine  ” — 

Why  am  I sitting  here  so  stunn’d  and 
still, 

Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on 
the  hill  ? — 

It  is  this  guilty  hand ! — 

And  there  rises  ever  a passionate  cry 
From  underneath  in  the  darkening 
land  — 

What  is  it,  that  has  been  done  ? 

0 dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth 
and  sky, 

The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy 
rising  sun, 

The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate ; 

For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken 
a word, 


456 


MAUD 


When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to 
the  gate, 

He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord  ; 
Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace, 

And  while  she  wept,  and  I strove  to 
be  cool, 

He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie, 

Till  I with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke, 
And  he  struck  me,  madman,  over  the 
face, 

Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool, 
Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by  ; 
Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke; 
Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeem- 
able woe; 

For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood, 
And  a million  horrible  bellowing 
echoes  broke 

From  the  red-ribb’d  hollow  behind 
the  wood, 

And  thunder’d  up  into  Heaven  the 
Christless  code, 

That  must  have  life  for  a blow. 

Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  seem’d  to 
grow. 

Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a fading  eye  ? 
“ The  fault  was  mine,”  he  whisper’d, 

“fly!” 

Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 
The  ghastly  Wraith  of  one  that  I 
know  ; 

And  there  rang  on  a sudden  a pas- 
sionate cry, 

A cry  for  a brother’s  blood  : 

It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears, 
till  I die,  till  I die. 

ii. 

Is  it  gone  ? my  pulses  beat  — 

What  was  it  ? a lying  trick  of  the 
brain  ? 

Yet  I thought  I saw  her  stand, 

A shadow  there  at  my  feet, 

High  over  the  shadowy  land. 

It  is  gone ; and  the  heavens  fall  in  a 
gentle  rain, 

When  they  should  burst  and  drown 
with  deluging  storms 
The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger 
and  lust, 

The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how 
to  forgive : 


Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold 
Thee  just, 

Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of 
venomous  worms, 

That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust; 
We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 

II. 

i. 

See  what  a lovely  shell, 

Small  and  pure  as  a pearl, 

Lying  close  to  my  foot, 

Frail,  but  a work  divine, 

Made  so  fairily  well 

With  delicate  spire  and  whorl. 

How  exquisitely  minute, 

A miracle  of  design  ! 

ii. 

What  is  it  ? a learned  man 
Could  give  it  a clumsy  name. 

Let  him  name  it  who  can, 

The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

hi. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 

Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 

Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a rainbow  frill  ? 

Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl’d, 

A golden  foot  or  a fairy  horn 
Thro’  his  dim  water-world  ? 

IV. 

Slight,  to  be  crush’d  with  a tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 

Small,  but  a work  divine, 

Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand. 

Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three  decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 

Here  on  the  Breton  strand ! 

v. 

Breton,  not  Briton  ; here 

Like  a shipwreck’d  man  on  a coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear  — 


MAUD. 


45} 


flagued  with  a flitting  to  and  fro, 
l disease,  a hard  mechanic  ghost 
hat  never  came  from  on  high 
^or  ever  arose  from  below, 

$ut  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye, 
Hying  along  the  land  and  the  main  — 
Vhy  should  it  look  like  Maud  ? 

I to  be  overawed 
$y  what  I cannot  but  know 
s a juggle  born  of  the  brain  ? 

VI. 

Sack  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a nameless  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 
Looking,  thinking  of  all  I have  lost ; 
An  old  song  vexes  my  ear ; 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 

VII. 

For  years,  a measureless  ill, 

For  years,  for  ever,  to  part  — 

But  she,  she  would  love  me  still; 

And  as  long,  O God,  as  she 
Have  a grain  of  love  for  me, 

So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 

Shall  I nurse  in  my  dark  heart, 
However  weary,  a spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 

VIII. 

Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 
With  a passion  so  intense 
One  would  think  that  it  well 
Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye,  — 
That  it  should,  by  being  so  over- 
wrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a sharper  sense 
For  a shell,  or  a flower,  little  things 
Which  else  would  have  been  past  by ! 
And  now  I remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

[ noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 
(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and 
thought 

It  is  his  mother’s  hair. 

IX. 

Who  knows  if  he  be  dead  ? 

Whether  I need  have  fled  ? 

Am  I guilty  of  blood  ? 


However  this  may  be, 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things 
good, 

While  I am  over  the  sea  ! 

Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 
But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and 
high, . 

Whatever  happen  to  me! 

Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by; 

But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her 
asleep, 

Powers  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the 
deep, 

And  comfort  her  tho’  I die. 

III. 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone ! 

I will  not  ask  thee  why 
Thou  canst  not  understand 
That  thou  art  left  for  ever  alone ; 
Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 
Or  if  I ask  thee  why, 

Care  not  thou  to  reply  : 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at 
hand 

When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 

IV. 

i. 

O that  ’twere  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  ! 

ii. 

When  I was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 

We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

hi. 

A shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee : 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 
For  one  short  hour  to  see 
The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might 
tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 


158 


MAUD. 


IV. 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening-, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 
In  a cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

v. 

Half  the  night  I waste  in  sighs, 

Half  in  dreams  I sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies; 

In  a wakeful  doze  I sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 

For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 

The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 

The  delight  of  low  replies. 

VI. 

'Tis  a morning  pure  and  sweet, 

And  a dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls  ; 

'Tis  a morning  pure  and  sweet, 

And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet; 

She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 

And  the  woodland  echo  rings  ; 

In  a moment  we  shall  meet ; 

She  is  singing  in  the  meadow 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

VII. 

Do  I hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 

My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 

My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye? 
But  there  rings  on  a sudden  a pas- 
sionate cry, 

There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 

And  a sullen  thunder  is  roll’d  ; 

For  a tumult  shakes  the  city, 

And  I wake,  my  dream  is  fled  ; 

In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 

By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

VIII. 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again, 


Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 

Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about ! 

'Tis  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 

IX. 

Then  I rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 

And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide ; 

The  day  comes,  a dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 

x. 

Thro’  the  hubbub  of  the  market 
I steal,  a wasted  frame, 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there, 

Thro’  all  that  crowd  confused  anc 
loud, 

The  shadow  still  the  same ; 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

XI. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came  glimmering  thro’  the  laurels 
At  the  quiet  evenfall, 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

XII. 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend, 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 

In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 

As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 

Should  I fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  “Forgive  the  wrong,” 

Or  to  ask  her,  “ Take  me,  sweet. 

To  the  regions  of  thy  rest  ” ? 

XIII. 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beat*. 
And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 
And  will  not  let  me  be ; 

And  I loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 
And  the  faces  that  one  meets. 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 

Always  I long  to  creep 


MAUD . 


hi. 


459 


nto  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 
dy  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

V. 

i. 

Dead,  long  dead. 

Long  dead ! 

And  my  heart  is  a handful  of  dust, 
And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head, 

And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain, 
For  into  a shallow  grave  they  are 
thrust, 

Only  a yard  beneath  the  street, 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat, 
beat, 

The  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat, 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  brain, 

With  never  an  end  to  the  stream  of 
passing  feet. 

Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying, 
Clamor  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and 
clatter, 

And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad, 

For  I thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but 
it  is  not  so  ; 

To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that 
not  sad  ? 

But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro, 

Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go ; 

And  then  to  hear  a dead  man  chatter 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 

ii. 

Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began, 
They  cannot  even  bury  a man  ; 

And  tho’  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the 
days  that  are  gone, 

Not  a bell  was  rung,  not  a prayer  was 
read ; 

It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the 
world  of  the  dead ; 

There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not 
one ; 

A touch  of  their  office  might  have 
sufficed, 

But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill 
their  church, 

As  the  churches  have  kill'd  their 
Christ. 


See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing, 

No  limit  to  his  distress  ; 

And  another,  a lord  of  all  things, 
praying 

To  his  own  great  self,  as  I guess , 

And  another,  a statesman  there,  be 
traying 

His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press  ; 
And  yonder  a vile  physician,  blabbing 
The  case  of  his  patient — all  for 
what  ? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an 
empty  head, 

And  wheedle  a world  that  loves  him 
not, 

For  it  is  but  a world  of  the  dead, 
iv. 

Nothing  but  idiot  gabble! 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 
And  then  not  understood, 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  public 
good, 

But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 

For  I never  whisper’d  a private  affair 
Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 
No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone, 
But  I heard  it  shouted  at  once  from 
the  top  of  the  house  ; 
Everything  came  to  be  known. 

Who  told  him  we  were  there? 

v. 

Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  came 
not  back 

From  the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves. 

where  he  used  to  lie  ; 

He  has  gather’d  the  bones  for  his 
o’ergrown  whelp  to  crack  ; 
Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and 
howl,  and  die. 

VI. 

Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 
And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the 
rat ; 

I know  not  whether  he  came  in  the 
Hanover  ship, 


*60 


MAUD . 


But  I know  that  he  lies  and  listens 
mute 

In  an  ancient  mansion’s  crannies  and 
holes  : 

Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it, 

Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes, 
poor  souls  ! 

It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 

VII. 

Tell  him  now : she  is  standing  here  at 
my  head  ; 

Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind  ; 

He  may  take  her  now  ; for  she  never 
speaks  her  mind, 

But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 

She  is  not  of  us,  as  I divine  ; 

She  comes  from  another  stiller  world 
of  the  dead, 

Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 

VIII. 

But  I know  where  a garden  grows, 

Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  be- 
side, 

All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 

That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season 
is  good, 

To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and 
flutes  : 

It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits, 

And  I almost  fear  they  are  not  roses, 
but  blood ; 

For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of 
pride, 

He  linkt  a dead  man  there  to  a spec- 
tral bride ; 

For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a Sultan  of 
brutes, 

Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side  ? 


IX. 

But  what  will  the  old  man  say  ? 

He  laid  a cruel  snare  in  a pit 

To  catch  a friend  of  mine  one  stormy 
day; 

\ et  now  I could  even  weep  to  think 
of  it ; 

For  what  will  the  old  man  say 

When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse 
in  the  pit  ? 


x. 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public 
foe, 

Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 

That  were  a public  merit,  far, 

Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from 
sin ; 

But  the  red  life  spilt  for  a private 
blow  — 

I swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless 
war 

Are  scarcely  even  akin. 


XI. 

0 me,  why  have  they  not  buried  me 

deep  enough  ? 

Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a grave  so 
rough, 

Me,  that  was  never  a quiet  sleeper  ? 
Maybe  still  I am  but  half-dead  ; 

Then  I cannot  be  wholly  dumb ; 

1 will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my  head 
And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind 

heart  wiii  cume 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 


PART  III. 

VI. 

i. 

My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a broken  wing 
Thro’  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror  and  fear, 
That  I come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a little  thing: 
My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a time  of  year 
When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the  dewy  downs. 


MAUD . 


461 


And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the  Charioteer 
And  starry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious  crowns 
Over  Orion’s  grave  low  down  in  the  west, 

That  like  a silent  lightning  under  the  stars 

She  seem’d  to  divide  in  a dream  from  a band  of  the  blest. 

And  spoke  of  a hope  for  the  world  in  the  coming  wars  — 

“ And  in  that  hope,  dear  soul,  let  trouble  have  rest. 

Knowing  I tarry  for  thee,”  and  pointed  to  Mars 

As  he  glow’d  like  a ruddy  shield  on  the  Lion’s  breast. 


ii. 

And  it  was  but  a dream,  yet  it  yielded  a dear  delight 
To  have  look’d,  tho’  but  in  a dream,  upon  eyes  so  fair, 

That  had  been  in  a weary  world  my  one  thing  bright ; 

And  it  was  but  a dream,  yet  it  lighten’d  my  despair 

When  I thought  that  a war  would  arise  in  defence  of  the  right 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend  or  cease, 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  ancient  height, 

Nor  Britain’s  one  sole  God  be  the  millionaire  : 

No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all,  and  Peace 
Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a languid  note, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd  increase, 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a slothful  shore, 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  cannon’s  throat 
Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no  more. 

hi. 

And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumor  of  battle  grew, 

“ It  is  time,  it  is  time,  O passionate  heart,’*  said  I 

(For  I cleaved  to  a cause  that  I felt  to  be  pure  and  true), 

“ It  is  time,  O passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 

That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should  die.” 

And  I stood  on  a giant  deck  and  mix’d  my  breath 
With  a loyal  people  shouting  a battle  cry, 

Till  I saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 
Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas  of  death. 

IV 

Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I wake  to  the  higher  aims 
Of  a land  that  has  lost  for  a little  her  lust  of  gold, 

And  love  of  a peace  that  was  full  of  wrongs  and  shames, 
Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be  told ; 

And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  battle  unroll’d ! 

Tho’  many  a light  shall  darken,  and  many  shall  weep 
For  those  that  are  crush’d  in  the  clash  of  jarring  claims^ 

Yet  God’s  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak’d  on  a giant  liar; 

And  many  a darkness  into  the  light  shall  leap, 

And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid  names, 

And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun, 

* And  the  heart  of  a people  beat  with  one  desire  ; 


462 


MAUD. 


For  the  peace,  that  I deem’d  no  peace,  is  over  and  done, 

And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and  the  Baltic  deep, 

And  deathful-grinning  mouths  of  the  fortress,  flames 
The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a heart  of  fire. 

v. 

Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll  down  like  a wind, 

We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a cause,  we  are  noble  still, 
And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems,  to  the  better  mind; 

It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good  than  to  rail  at  the  ill ; 

I have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I am  one  with  my  kind, 

I embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the  doom  assign’d. 


ENOCH  ARDEN 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left 
a chasm ; 

And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yel- 
low sands; 

Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a narrow 
wharf 

In  cluster ; then  a moulder’d  church  ; 
and  higher 

A long  street  climbs  to  one  tail-tower’ d 
mill ; 

And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a gray 
down 

With  Danish  barrows;  and  a hazel- 
wood, 

By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 

Green  in  a cuplike  hollow  of  the 
down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a hundred  years 
ago, 

Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie 
Lee, 

The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 

And  Philip  Ray  the  miller’s  only  son, 

And  Enoch  Arden,  a rough  sailor’s  lad 

Made  orphan  by  a winter  shipwreck, 
play’d 

Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the 
shore. 

Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fish- 
ing-nets, 

Anchors  of  rusty-fluke,  and  boats  up- 
drawn; 


And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving 
sand 

To  watch  them  overflow’d,  or  follow- 
ing up 

And  flying  the  white  breaner,  daily 
left 

The  little  footprint  daily  wash’d  away 

A narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the 
cliff : 

In  this  the  children  play’d  at  keeping 
house 

Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the 
next, 

While  Annie  still  was  mistress ; but 
at  times 

Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a 
week : 

“ This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little 
wife.” 

“ Mine  too  ” said  Philip  “ turn  and 
turn  about  ” : 

When,  if  they  quarrell’d,  Enoch 
stronger-made 

Was  master:  then  would  Philip,  his 
blue  eyes 

All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of 
tears, 

Shriek  out  “ I hate  you,  Enoch,”  and 
at  this 

The  little  wife  would  weep  for  com- 
pany, 

And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  he 
sake, 

And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to 
both. 


464 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  child- 
hood past, 

And  the  new  warmth  of  life’s  ascend- 
ing sun 

Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his 
heart 

On  that  one  girl;  and  Enoch  spoke 
his  love, 

But  Philip  loved  in  silence ; and  the 
girl 

Seem’d  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to 
him ; 

But  she  loved  Enoch ; tho’  she  knew 
it  not, 

And  would  if  ask’d  deny  it.  Enoch 
set 

A purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes, 

To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 

To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make 
a home 

For  Annie : and  so  prosper’d  that  at 
last 

A luckier  or  a bolder  fisherman, 

A carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 

For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten 
coast 

Than  Enoch.  Likewise  had  he  served 
a year 

On  board  a merchantman,  and  made 
himself 

Full  sailor ; and  he  thrice  had  pluck’d 
a life 

From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down- 
streaming seas : 

And  all  men  look’d  upon  him  favora- 
bly : 

And  ere  he  touch’d  his  one-and- 
twentieth  May, 

He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made 
a home 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  halfway 
up 

The  narrow  street  that  clamber’d 
toward  the  mill. 

Then,  on  a golden  autumn  even- 
tide, 

The  younger  people  making  holiday, 

With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great 
and  small, 

Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.  Philip 
stay’d 


(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing 
him) 

An  hour  behind ; but  as  he  climb’d 
the  hill, 

Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the 
wood  began 

To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the 
pair, 

Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in- 
hand, 

His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather- 
beaten face 

All-kindled  by  a still  and  sacred  fire, 
That  burn’d  as  on  an  altar.  Philip 

look’d, 

And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his 
doom ; 

Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together, 
groan’d, 

And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a wounded 
life  I 

Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the 
wood ; 

There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  in 
merrymaking, 

Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose 
and  past 

Bearing  a lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily 
rang  the  bells, 

And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven! 
happy  years,  - 

Seven  happy  years  of  health  ana 
competence,  j 

And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil ; 
With  children;  first  a daughter.  In 
him  woke, 

With  his  first  babe’s  first  cry,  the 
noble  wish 

To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 
And  give  his  child  a better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  hers ; a wish 
renew’d, 

When  two  years  after  came  a boy  to  be 
The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 

While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful 
seas, 

Or  often  journeying  landward  ; for  n 
truth  f 

Enoch’s  white  horse,  and  Enoch  s 
!*  ocean-spoiL 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


465 


Ln  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-redden'd  with  a thousand  win- 
ter gales, 

Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were 
known, 

But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the 
down, 

Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp, 
And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonely 
Hall, 

Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  min- 
istering. 

Then  came  a change,  as  all  things 
human  change. 

ren  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow 
port 

Open'd  a larger  haven : thither  used 
Snoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or 
sea ; 

Ind  once  when  there,  and  clambering 
on  a mast 

n harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and 
fell: 

V limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted 
him; 

Vnd  while  he  lay  recovering  there, 
his  wife 

tore  him  another  son,  a sickly  one : 
Vnother  hand  crept  too  across  his 
trade 

i'aking  her  bread  and  theirs  : and  on 
him  fell, 

fltho'  a grave  and  staid  God-fearing 
man, 

ret  lying  thus  inactive,  doubt  and 
gloom. 

le  seem'd,  as  in  a nightmare  of  the 
night, 

o see  his  children  leading  evermore 
iow  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth, 
aid  her,  he  loved,  a beggar : then  he 
pray'd 

Save  them  from  this,  whatever 
comes  to  me." 

md  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of 
that  ship 

noch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mis- 
chance, 

ame,  for  he  knew  the  man  and 
valued  him, 

eporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 


And  wanting  yet  a boatswain.  Would 
he  go  7 

There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she 
sail’d, 

Sail'd  from  this  port.  Would  Enoch 
have  the  place  7 

And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 

Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance 
appear'd 

No  graver  than  as  when  some  little 
cloud 

Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 

And  isles  a light  in  the  offing  : yet  the 
wife  — 

When  he  was  gone  — the  children  — ' 
what  to  do  ? 

Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 
plans ; 

To  sell  the  boat — and  yet  he  loved 
her  well  — 

How  many  a rough  sea  had  he  weath- 
er'd in  her ! 

He  knew  her,  as  a horseman  knows  his 
horse  — 

And  yet  to  sell  her  — then  with  what 
she  brought 

Buy  goods  and  stores  — set  Annie  forth 
in  trade 

With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their 
wives  — 

So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he 
was  gone. 

Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yon- 
der? go 

This  voyage  more  than  once?  yea  twice 
or  thrice  — 

As  oft  as  needed  — last,  returning  rich, 

Become  the  master  of  a larger  craft, 

With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 

Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  edu- 
cated, 

And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his 
own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined 
all : 

Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie 
pale, 

Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-born. 

Forward  she  started  with  a happy  cry 


466 


ENOCH  A EDEN. 


And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms  ; 

Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his 
limbs, 

Appraised  his  weight  and  fondled 
fatherlike, 

But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 

To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he 
spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring 
had  girt 

Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his 
will : 

Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 

But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a tear, 

Many  a sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  re- 
new'd 

(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of 
it) 

Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 

For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 

He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 

Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in 
vain ; 

So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it 
thro’. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea- 
friend, 

Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and 
set  his  hand 

To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting- 
room 

With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods 
and  stores. 

So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at 
home, 

Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer 
and  axe, 

Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem’d  to 
hear 

Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrill'd 
and  rang, 

Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful 
hand,  — 

The  space  was  narrow,  — having  or- 
der'd all 

Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature 
packs 

Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused  ; 
and  he, 


Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to 
the  last, 

Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of 
farewell 

Brightly  and  boldly.  All  his  Annie’s 
fears, 

Save,  as  his  Annie’s,  were  a laughter 
to  him. 

Yet  Enoch  as  a brave  God-fearing  man 

Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mys- 
tery 

Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man- 
in-God, 

Pray'd  for  a blessing  on  his  wife  and 
babes 

Whatever  came  to  him : and  then  he 
said 

“ Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  ol 
God 

Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us 

Keep  a clean  hearth  and  a clear  fire  fo; 
me, 

For  I'll  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you 
know  it.” 

Then  lightly  rocking  baby’s  cradh 
“ and  he, 

This  pretty, puny,  weakly  little  one,— 

Nay  — for  I love  him  all  the  better  foi 
it  — 

God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  mj 
knees 

And  I will  tell  him  tales  of  foreigi 
parts, 

And  make  him  merry,  when  I conn 
home  again. 

Come,  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before 
go.” 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  sh* 
heard, 

And  almost  hoped  herself  ; but  whei 
he  turn’d 

The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  thing 

In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 

On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaver 
she  heard, 

Heard  and  not  heard  him ; as  the  vil 
lage  girl, 

Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  th 
spring, 


ENOCH  ARDEN 


467 


lusing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for 
her, 

tears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  over- 
flow. 

At  length  she  spoke  “ 0 Enoch,  you 
are  wise ; 

uul  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well 
know  I 

'hat  I shall  look  upon  your  face  no 
more.” 

« Well  then,”  said  Enoch,  “ I shall 
look  on  yours. 

Vnnie,  the  ship  I sail  in  passes  here 

He  named  the  day ) get  you  a seaman’s 
glass, 

Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your 
fears.” 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  mo- 
ments came, 

* Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  com- 
forted, 

Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I come 
again 

Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I must 
go. 

Aid  fear  no  more  for  me ; or  if  you 
fear 

Oast  all  your  cares  on  God ; that  an- 
chor holds. 

Es  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 

Parts  of  the  morning  ? if  I flee  to  these 

Can  I go  from  Him  ? and  the  sea  is  His, 

The'sea  is  His  : He  made  it.” 

Enoch  rose, 

Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  droop- 
ing wife, 

And  kiss’d  his  wonder-stricken  little 
ones ; 

But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who 
slept 

After  a night  of  feverous  wakefulness, 

When  Annie  would  have  raised  him 
Enoch  said 

: Wake  him  not ; let  him  sleep  ; how 
should  the  child 

Remember  this  ? ” and  kiss’d  him  in 
his  cot. 

But  Annie  from  her  baby’s  forehead 
dipt 


A tiny  curl,  and  gave  it : this  he  kept 

Thro’  all  his  future ; but  now  hastily 
caught 

His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went 
his  way. 

She,  when  the  day  that  Enoch 
mention’d,  came, 

Borrow’d  a glass,  but  all  in  vain : 
perhaps 

She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her 
eye; 

Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  trem- 
ulous ; 

She  saw  him  not : and  while  he  stood 
on  deck 

Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel 
past. 

Ev’n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing 
sail 

She  watch’d  it,  and  departed  weeping 
for  him ; 

Then,  tho’  she  mourn’d  his  absence  as 
his  grave, 

Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with 
his, 

But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being 
bred 

To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 

By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 

Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less, 

And  still  foreboding  “what  would 
Enoch  say  ? ” 

For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  diffi- 
culty 

And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares 
for  less 

Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what 
she  sold : 

She  fail’d  and  sadden’d  knowing  it; 
and  thus, 

Expectant  of  that  news  which  never 
came, 

Gain’d  for  her  own  a scanty  suste- 
nance, 

And  lived  a life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-born 
and  grew 

Yet  sicklier,  tho’  the  mother  cared  for 
it 


468 


ENOCH  Ak&ki\ 


With  all  a mother’s  care : neverthe- 
less, 

Whether  her  business  often  call’d  her 
from  it, 

Or  thro’  the  want  of  what  it  needed 
most, 

Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best 
could  tell 

What  most  it  needed  — howsoe’er  it 
was, 

After  a lingering,  — ere  she  was 
aware,  — 

Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie 
buried  it, 

Philip’s  true  heart,  which  hunger’d  for 
her  peace 

(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look’d 
upon  her), 

Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so 
long. 

Surely,”  said  Philip,  “ I may  see  her 
now, 

May  be  some  litukQ  comfort”;  there- 
fore went, 

Past  thro’  the  solitary  room  in  front, 
Paused  for  a moment  at  an  inner  door, 
Then  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one 
opening, 

Enter’d;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her 
grief, 

Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
But  turn’d  her  own  toward  the  wall 
and  wept. 

Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falter- 
ingly 

"Annie,  I came  to  ask  a favor  of  you.” 

He  spoke ; the  passion  in  her  moan’d 
reply 

“ Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I am ! ” half  abash’d  him ; yet 
unask’d, 

His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to 
her : 

•*1  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he 
wish'd, 


Enoch,  your  husband : I have  ever 
said* 

You  chose  the  best  among  us  — a 
strong  man : 

For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his 
hand 

To  do  the  thing  he  will’d,  and  bore  it 
thro’. 

And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary 
way, 

And  leave  you  lonely  ? not  to  see  the 
world  — 

For  pleasure  ? — nay,  but  for  the 
wherewithal 

To  give  his  babes  a better  bringing-up 

Than  his  had  been,  or  yours  : that  was 
his  wish. 

And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 

To  find  the  precious  morning  hours 
were  lost. 

And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his 
grave, 

If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  run- 
ning wild 

Like  colts  about  the  waste.  So,  Annie 
now  — 

Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  oui 
lives  ? 

I do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you 
bear 

Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me 
nay  — 

For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  corner 
again 

Why  then  he  shall  repay  me  — if  you 
will, 

Annie  — for  I am  rich  and  well-to-do. 

Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  tc 
school : 

This  is  the  favor  that  I came  to  ask.” 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  agains 
the  wall 

Answer’d  “ I cannot  look  you  in  tin 
face ; 

I seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down 

When  yo.u  came  in  my  sorrow  brokt 
me  down ; 

And  now  I think  your  kindness  br*?A 
me  down ; 

But  Enoch  lives ; that  A borne  i£  oi 
me : 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


46* 


He  will  repay  you:  money  can  be 
repaid ; 

Not  kindness  such  as  yours.” 

And  Philip  ask’d 

Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  % ” 

There  she  turn’d, 

She  rose,  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes 
upon  him, 

And  dwelt  a moment  on  his  kindly 
face, 

Ihen  calling  down  a blessing  on  his 
head 

Caught  at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  pas- 
sionately, 

And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 

So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 
school, 

And  bought  them  needful  books,  and 
everyway, 

Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 

Made  himself  theirs ; and  tho’  for 
Annie’s  sake, 

Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port, 

He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest 
wish, 

And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet 
he  sent 

Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs 
and  fruit, 

The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 

Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and 
then, 

With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the 
meal 

To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 

From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the 
waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie’s 
mind : 

Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came 
upon  her, 

Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  grati- 
tude 

Light  on  a broken  word  to  thank  him 
with. 

But  Philip  was  her  children’s  all-in- 
all; 


From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they 
ran 

To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily ; 

Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were 
they ; 

Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty 
wrongs 

Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play’d 
with  him 

And  call’d  him  Father  Philip.  Philip 
gain’d 

As  Enoch  lost;  for  Enoch  seem’d  to 
them 

Uncertain  as  a vision  or  a dream, 

Faint  as  a figure  seen  in  early  dawn 

Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 

Going  we  know  not  where : and  so  ten 
years, 

Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native 
land, 

Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch 
came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie’s  chil- 
dren long’d 

To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood. 

And  Annie  would  go  with  them ; then 
they  begg’d 

For  Father  Philip  (as  the.,  call’d  him) 
too : 

Him,  like-  the  working  bee  in  blossom- 
dust. 

Blanch’d  with  his  mill,  they  found; 
and  saying  to  him 

“ Come  with  us  Father  Philip”  he 
denied ; 

But  when  the  children  pluck’d  at  him 
to  go, 

He  laugh’d,  and  yielded  readily  to 
their  wish, 

For  was  not  Annie  with  them  ? and 
they  went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary 
down, 

Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 
began 

To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  hei 
force 

Fail’d  her ; and  sighing,  “ Let  me  rest  ’ 
she  said : 

I So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content 


m 


ENOCH  ARDEN 


While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubi- 
lant cries 

Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumul- 
tuously 

Down  thro’  the  whitening  hazels  made 
a plunge 

To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and 
bent  or  broke 

The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear 
away 

Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each 
other 

And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the 
wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 

Her  presence,  and  remember’d  one 
dark  hour 

Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a wounded 
life 

He  crept  into  the  shadow : at  last  he 
said, 

Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  “ Listen, 
Annie, 

How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in 
the  wood. 

Tired,  Annie  1 ” for  she  did  not  speak 
a word. 

“ Tired  ? ” but  her  face  had  fall’n  upon 
her  hands ; 

At  which,  as  with  a kind  of  anger  in 
him, 

“ The  ship  was  lost,”  he  said,  “ the 
ship  was  lost ! 

No  more  of  that ! why  should  you  kill 
yourself 

And  make  them  orphans  quite1?”  And 
Annie  said 

“ I thought  not  of  it : but  — I know 
not  why  — 

Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary.” 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer 
spoke. 

u Annie,  there  is  a thing  upon  my 
mind, 

And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long, 

That  tho’  I know  not  when  it  first 
came  there, 

I know  that  it  will  out  at  last.  O 
Annie, 


It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all 
chance, 

That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years 
ago 

Should  still  be  living;  well  then  — 
let  me  speak  * 

I grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting 
help : 

I cannot  help  you  as  1 wish  to  do 

Unless  — they  say  that  women  are  so 
quick  — 

Perhaps  you  know  what  I would  have 
you  know  — 

I wish  you  for  my  wife.  I fain  would 
prove 

A father  to  your  children:  I do 
think 

They  love  me  as  a father : I am  sure 

That  I love  them  as  if  they  were  mine 
own ; 

And  I believe,  if  you  were  fast  my 
wife, 

That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain 
years, 

We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God 
grants 

To  any  of  his  creatures.  Think  upon 
it : 

For  I am  well-to-do  — no  kin,  no  care, 

No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and 
yours  : 

And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our 
lives, 

And  I have  loved  you  longer  than  you 
know.” 

Then  answer’d  Annie  ; tenderly  she 
spoke : 

“ You  have  been  as  God’s  good  angel 
in  our  house. 

God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you 
for  it, 

Philip,  with  something  happier  than 
myself. 

Can  one  love  twice  ? can  you  be  eve* 
loved 

As  Enoch  was?  what  is  it  that  you 
ask  ? ” 

“ I am  content  ” he  answer’d  “ to  be 
loved 

A little  after  Enoch.”  “ O ” sin 
cried. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


471 


Scared  as  it  were,  “dear  Philip,  wait 
a while  : 

If  Enoch  comes  — but  Enoch  will  not 
come  — 

Yet  wait  a year,  a year  is  not  so  long : 

Surely  I shall  be  wiser  in  a year : 

0 wait  a little ! ” Philip  sadly  said 

« Annie,  as  I have  waited  all  my  life 

1 well  may  wait  a little.”  “ Nay  ” she 

cried 

“ I am  bound  : you  have  my  promise 
— in  a year : 

Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I bid.e 
mine  ? ” 

And  Philip  answer’d  “ I will  bide  my 
year.” 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philip 
glancing  up 

Beheld"  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen 
day 

Pass  from  the  Danish  harrow  over- 
head ; 

Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for 
Annie,  rose 

And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro’ 
the  wood. 

Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their 
spoil ; 

Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and 
there 

At  Annie’s  door  he  paused  and  gave 
his  hand, 

Saying  gently  “Annie,  when  I spoke 
to  you, 

That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.  I 
was  wrong, 

I am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you 
are  free.” 

Then  Annie  weeping  answer’d  “ I am 
bound.” 

IS 

She  spoke  ; and  in  one  moment  as 
it  were, 

While  yet  she  went  about  her  house- 
hold ways, 

Ev’n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest 
words, 

That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she 
knew, 

That  autumn  into  autumn  flash’d 
again, 


And  there  he  stood  once  more  before 
her  face, 

Claiming  her  promise.  “ Is  it  a year  ? ” 
she  ask’d. 

“ Yes,  if  the  nuts  ” he  said  “ he  ripe 
again : 

Come  out  and  see.”  But  she  — she 
put  him  off  — 

So  much  to  look  to  — such  a change 
— a month  — 

Give  her  a month  — she  knew  that 
she  was  bound  — 

A month  — no  more.  Then  Philip 
with  his  eyes 

Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  hit 
voice 

Shaking  a little  like  a drunkard’s  hand 
“ Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  tak. 
your  own  time.” 

And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity 
of  him ; 

And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a scarcerbelievable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-suffer 
ance, 

Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away, 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port. 
Abhorrent  of  a calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a personal  wrong 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but 
trifle  with  her ; 

Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw 
him  on  ; 

And  others  laugh’d  at  her  and  Philip 
too, 

As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their 
own  minds, 

And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.  Her 
own  son 

Was  silent,  tho’  he  often  look’d  hig 
wish ; 

But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon 
her 

To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty ; 
And  Philip’s  rosy  face  contracting 
grew 

Careworn  and  wan ; and  all  these 
things  fell  on  her 


472 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 

That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  ear- 
nestly 

Pray’d  for  a sign  “my  Enoch  is  he 
gone  ? ” 

Then  compass’d  round  by  the  blind 
wall  of  night 

Brook’d  not  the  expectant  terror  of 
her  heart, 

Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself 
a light, 

Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 

Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a sign, 

Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 

“Under  the  palm-tree.”  That  was 
nothing  to  her : 

No  meaning  there : she  closed  the 
Book  and  slept : 

When  lo  ! her  Enoch  sitting  on  a 
height, 

Under  a palm-tree,  oyer  him  the 
Sun : 

“ He  is  gone,”  she  thought,  “ he  is 
happy,  he  is  singing 

Hosanna  in  the  highest : yonder  shines 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these 
be  palms 

Whereof  the  happy  people  strowing 
cried 

* Hosanna  in  the  highest ! ’ ” Here 
she  woke, 

Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly 
to  him 

“There  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
not  wed.” 

“Then  for  God’s  sake,”  he  answer’d, 
“ both  our  sakes, 

So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once.” 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang 
the  bells, 

Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were 
wed. 

But  never  merrily  beat  Annie’s  heart. 

A footstep  seem’d  to  fall  beside  her 
path, 

She  knew  not  whence ; a whisper  on 
her  ear, 

She  knew  not  what*,  nor  loved  she  to 
be  left 


Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out 
alone. 

What  ail’d  her  then,  that  ere  she 
enter’d,  often 

Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the 
latch, 

Fearing  to  enter:  Philip  thought  he 
knew: 

Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common 
to  her  state, 

Being  with  child  : but  when  her  child 
was  born, 

Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself 
renew’d, 

Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her 
heart, 

Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 

And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly 
died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  ? prosper- 
ously sail’d 

The  ship  “Good  Fortune,”  tho’  at 
setting  forth 

The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward, 
shook 

And  almost  overwhelm’d  her,  yet 
unvext 

She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the 
world, 

Then  after  a long  tumble  about  the 
Cape 

And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and 
fair, 

She  passing  thro’  the  summer  world 
again, 

The  breath  of  heaven  came  continu- 
ally 

And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden 
isles, 

Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself, 
and  bought 

Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of 
those  times, 

A gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage : at 
first  indeed 

Thro’  many  a fair  sea-circle,  day  by 
day, 


ENOCH  ARDEN . 


473 


Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure- 
head 

Stared  o’er  the  ripple  feathering  from 
her  bows : 

Then  follow’d  calms,  and  then  winds 
variable, 

Then  baffling,  a long  course  of  them; 
and  last 

Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moon- 
less heavens 

Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  “ breakers  ” 
came 

The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 

But  Enoch  and  two  others.  Half  the 
night, 

Buoy’d  upon  floating  tackle  and 
broken  spars, 

These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at 
morn 

Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  suste- 
nance, 

Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nour- 
ishing roots ; 

Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 

The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was 
tame. 

There  in  a seaward-gazing  mountain- 
gorge 

They  built,  and  thatch’d  with  leaves 
of  palm,  a hut, 

Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.  So  the 
three, 

Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness, 

Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill- 
content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more 
than  boy, 

Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and 
wreck, 

Lay  lingering  out  a five-years’  death- 
in-life. 

They  could  not  leave  him.  After  he 
was  gone, 

The  two  remaining  found  a fallen 
stem; 

And  Enoch’s  comrade,  careless  of 
himself, 

Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion, 
fell 


Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived 
alone. 

In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God’s 
warning  “ wait.” 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak, 
the  lawns 

And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways 
to  Heaven, 

The  slender  coco’s  drooping  crown  of 
plumes, 

The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of 
bird, 

The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil’d  around  the  stately  stems, 
and  ran 

Ev’n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the 
world, 

All  these  he  saw ; but  what  he  fain 
had  seen 

He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human 
face, 

Nor  ever  hear  a kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean- 
fowl, 

The  league-long  roller  thundering  on 
the  reef, 

The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees 
that  branch’d 

And  blossom’d  in  the  zenith,  or  the 
sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the 
wave, 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all 
day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A shipwreck’d  sailor,  waiting  for  a 
sail : 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and 
precipices  ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 
Then  the  great  stars  that  globed 
themselves  in  Heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and 
again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  — but  no 
sail. 


474 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


There  often  as  he  watch’d  or  seem’d 
to  watch, 

So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him 
paused, 

A phantom  made  of  many  phantoms 
moved 

Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  him- 
self 

Moved  haunting  people,  things  and 
places,  known 

Far  in  a darker  isle  beyond  the  line ; 

The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the 
small  house, 

The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the 
leafy  lanes, 

The  peacock-yewtree  °nd  the  lonely 
Hall, 

The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold, 
the  chill 

November  dawns  and  de^'v-glooming 
downs, 

The  gentle  shower,  the  smeii  of  dying 
leaves, 

And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color’d 
seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his 
ears, 

Tho’  faintly,  merrily  — far  and  far 
away  — 

He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish 
bells ; 

Then,  tho’  he  knew  not  wherefore, 
started  up 

Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous 
hateful  isle 

Return’d  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor 
heart 

Spoken  with  That,  which  being  every- 
where 

Lets  none, who  speaks  with  Him,  seem 
all  alone, 

Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch’s  early-silvering 
head 

The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came 
and  went 

Year  after  year.  His  hopes  to  see 
his  own, 

And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar 
fields, 


Not  yet  had  perish’d,  when  his  lonely 
doom 

Came  suddenly  to  an  end.  Another 
ship 

(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling 
winds, 

Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her 
destined  course, 

Stay’d  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where 
she  lay: 

For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early 
dawn 

Across  a break  on  the  mist-wreathen 
isle 

The  silent  water  slipping  from  the 
hills, 

They  sent  a crew  that  landing  burst 
away 

In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and 
fill’d  the  shores 

With  clamor.  Downward  from  his 
mountain  gorge 

Stept  the  long-hair’d,  long-bearded 
solitary, 

Brown,  looking  hardly  human, 
strangely  clad, 

Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it 
seem’d, 

With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making 
signs 

They  knew  not  what : and  yet  he  led 
the  way 

To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water 
ran ; 

And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 

And  heard  them  talking,  his  long- 
bounden  tongue 

Was  loosen’d,  till  he  made  them 
understand ; 

Whom,  when  their  casks  were  fill’d 
they  took  aboard : 

And  there  the  tale  he  utter’d  brokenly, 

Scarce-credited  at  first  but  more  and 
more, 

Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen’d 
to  it : 

And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free 
passage  home ; 

But  oft  he  work’d  among  the  rest  and 
shook 

His  isolation  from  him.  None  of 
these 


ENOCH  ARDEN 


475 


Came  from  his  country,  or  . could  an- 
swer him, 

If  question’d,  aught  of  what  he  cared 
to  know. 

And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long 
delays, 

The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy ; but 
evermore 

His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 

Returning,  till  beneath  a clouded 
moon 

He  like  a lover  down  thro’  all  his 
blood 

Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning- 
breath 

Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly 
wall : 

And  that  same  morning  officers  and 
men 

Levied  a kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 

Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him 
it : 

Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed 
him, 

Ev’n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail’d 
before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any 
one, 

But  homeward  — home  — what  home'? 
had  he  a home  ? 

His  home,  he  walk’d.  Bright  was  that 
afternoon, 

Sunny  but  chill ; till  drawn  thro’  either 

• chasm, 

Where  either  haven  open’d  on  the 
deeps, 

Roll’d  a sea-haze  and  whelm’d  the 
world  in  gray ; 

Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  be- 
fore, 

And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left 
and  right 

IOf  wither’d  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  robin 
piped 

Disconsolate,  and  thro’  the  dripping 
haze 

The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore 
it  down : 

Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the 
gloom ; 


Last,  as  it  seem’d,  a great  mist-blotted 
light 

Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the 
place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having 
slowly  stolen, 

His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach’d 
the  home 

Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and 
his  babes 

In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were 
born ; 

But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur 
there 

(A  bill  of  sale  gleam’d  thro’  the  drizzle) 
crept 

Still  downward  thinking  “ dead  oy 
dead  to  me  1 ” 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf 
he  went, 

Seeking  a tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A front  of  timber-crost  antiquity, 

So  propt,  worm  eaten,  ruinously  old, 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone  ; but  he 
was  gone 

Who  kept  it ; and  his  widow  Miriam 
Lane, 

With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the 
house ; 

A haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but 
now 

Stiller,  with  yet  a bed  for  wandering 
men. 

There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and 
garrulous, 

Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the 
port, 

Not  knowing  — Enoch  was  so  brown, 
so  bow’d, 

So  broken  — all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  baby’s  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to 
school, 

And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing 
I her, 


476 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and 
the  birth 

Of  Philip’s  child : and  o’er  his  coun- 
tenance 

No  shadow  past,  nor  motion  : any  one, 

Regarding,  well  had  deem’d  he  felt 
the  tale 

Less  than  the  teller:  only  when  she 
closed 

“ Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and 
lost” 

He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 

Repeated  muttering  “ cast  away  and 
lost”; 

Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers 
“ lost ! ” 

But  Enoch  yearn’d  to  see  her  face 
again ; 

“If  I might  look  on  her  sweet  face 
again 

And  know  that  she  is  happy.”  So  the 
thought 

Haunted  and  harass’d  him,  and  drove 
him  forth, 

At  evening  when  the  dull  November 
day 

Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the 
hill. 

There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below ; 

There  did  a thousand  memories  roll 
upon  him, 

Unspeakable  for  sadness.  By  and  by 

The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 

Ear-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip’s 
house, 

Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  al- 
lures 

The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly 
strikes 

Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary 
life. 

For  Philip’s  dwelling  fronted  on  the 
street, 

The  latest  house  to  landward;  but  be- 
hind, 

With  one  small  gate  that  open’d  on 
the  waste, 

Flourish’d  a little  garden  square  and 
wall’d  : 


And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 

A yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a walk 

Of  shingle,  and  a walk  divided  it : 

But  Enoch  shunn’d  the  middle  walk 
and  stole 

Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew;  and 
thence 

That  which  he  better  might  have 
shunn’d,  if  griefs 

Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch 
saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  ot  the  burnish’d 
board 

Sparkled  and  shone ; so  genial  was  the 
hearth : 

And  on  the  right  hana  of  the  hearth 
he  saw 

Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times. 

Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his 
knees ; 

And  o’er  her  second  father  stoopt  a 
girl, 

A later  but  a loftier  Annie  Lee, 

Eair-hair’d  and  tall,  and  from  her 
lifted  hand 

Dangled  a length  of  ribbon  and  a ring 

To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear’d  his 
creasy  arms, 

Caught  at  and  ever  miss’d  it,  and  they 
laugh’d ; 

And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he 
saw 

The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her 
babe, 

But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak 
with  him, 

Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and 
strong, 

And  saying  that  which  pleased  him, 
for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life 
beheld 

His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the 
babe 

Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father’s 
knee, 

And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the 
happiness, 

And  his  own  children  tall  and  beauti* 
ful. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


477 


And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his 
plaCe,  . , 

Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children  s 
love  — 

Then  he,  tho’  Miriam  Lane  had  told 
him  all, 

Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than 
things  heard, 

Stagger’d  and  shook,  holding  the 
branch,  and  fear’d 

To  send  abroad  a shrill  and  terrible 
cry, 

Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast 
of  doom, 

Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the 
hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a 
thief, 

Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate 
underfoot, 

And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 

Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and 
be  found, 

Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open’d  it,  and 
closed, 

As  lightly  as  a sick  man’s  chamber- 
door, 

Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the 
waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but 
that  his  knees 

Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he 
dug 

His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and 
pray’d. 

« Too  hard  to  bear!  why  did  they 
take  me  thence  ? 

0 God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour, 
Thou 

That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely 
isle, 

Uphold  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 

A little  longer!  aid  me,  give  me 
strength 

Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 

Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her 
peace. 

My  children  too ! must  I not  speak  to 
these  1 


They  know  me  not.  I should  betray 
myself. 

Never  : No  father’s  kiss  for  me  — the 
girl 

So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my 

son.” 

There  speech  and  thought  and  na- 
ture fail’d  a little, 

And  he  lay  tranced  ; but  when  he  rose 
and  paced 

Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again. 

All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street 
he  went 

Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 

As  tho’  it  were  the  burthen  of  a song, 

« Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her 
know.” 

He  was  not  all  unhappy  . His  resolve 

Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  ever- 
more 

Prayer  from  a living  source  within  the 
will, 

And  beating  up  thro’  all  the  bitter 
world, 

Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the 
sea, 

Kept  him  a living  soul.  “This  mil- 
ler’s wife  ” 

He  said  to  Miriam  “that  you  spoke 
about, 

Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband 
lives  ? ” 

“ Ay,  ay,  poor  soul  ” said  Miriam, 
“ fear  enow ! 

If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him 
dead,  u 

Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort; 
and  he  thought 

“ After  the  Lord  has  call’d  me  she 
shall  know, 

I wait  His  time,”  and  Enoch  set  him- 
self, 

Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby 
to  live. 

Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his 
hand. 

Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and 

I wrought 

To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-netfl,  Qt 
help’d 


478 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 

That  brought  the  stinted  commerce 
of  those  days ; 

Thus  earn’d  a scanty  living  for  him- 
self: 

Eet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself, 

Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life 
in  it 

Whereby  the  man  could  live ; and  as 
the  year 

Roll’d  itself  round  again  to  meet  the 
day 

When  Enoch  had  return’d,  a languor 
came 

Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 

Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do 
no  more, 

But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last 
his  bed. 

And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheer- 
fully. 

For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded 
wreck 

See  thro’  the  gray  skirts  of  a lifting 
squall 

The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life 
approach 

To  save  the  life  despair’d  of,  than  he 
saw 

Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close 
of  all. 

For  thro’  that  dawning  gleam’d  a 
kindlier  hope 

On  Enoch  thinking  “ after  I am 
gone, 

Then  may  she  learn  I lov’d  her  to  the 
last.” 

He  call’d  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and 
said 

“ W oman,  I have  a secret  — only  swear, 

Before  I tell  you  — swear  upon  the 
book 

Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead.” 

“Dead,”  clamor’d  the  good  woman, 
“ hear  him  talk ! 

I warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring 
you  round.” 

“ Swear”  added  Enoch  sternly  " on 
the  book.” 

And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam 
swore. 


Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon 
her, 

“ Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this 
town  ? ” 

“ Know  him  'l  ” she  said  “ I knew  him 
far  away. 

Ay,  ay,  I mind  him  coming  down  the 
street ; 

Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no 
man,  he.” 

Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer’d 
her ; 

“ His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares 
for  him. 

I think  I have  not  three  days  more  to 
live ; 

I am  the  man.”  At  which  the  woman 
gave 

A half-incredulous,  half-hysterical 
cry. 

“ You  Arden,  you!  nay,  — sure  he  was 
a foot 

Higher  than  you  be.”  Enoch  said 
again 

“ My  God  has  bow’d  me  down  to  what 
I am ; 

My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken 
me ; 

Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I am  he 

Who  married  — but  that  name  has 
twice  been  changed  — 

I married  her  who  married  Philip 
Ray. 

Sit,  listen.”  Then  he  told  her  of  his 
voyage, 

His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming 
back, 

His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 

And  how  he  kept  it.  As  the  woman 
heard, 

Fast  flow’d  the  current  of  her  easy 
tears, 

While  in  her  heart  she  yearn’d  inces- 
santly 

To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little 
haven, 

Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his 
woes ; 

But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she 
forbore, 

Saying  only  “ See  your  bairns  before 
you  go ! 


ENOCH  ARDEN 


«79 


Eli,  let  me  fetch  'em,  Arden,"  and  I 
arose 

Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch 
hung 

A moment  on  her  words,  but  then 
replied : 

“ Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the 
last, 

But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I die. 

Sit  down  again ; mark  me  and  under- 
stand, 

While  I have  power  to  speak.  I 
charge  you  now, 

When  you  "shall  see  her,  tell  her  that 
I died 

Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving 
her; 

Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving 
her 

As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my 
own. 

And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I 
saw 

So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest 
breath 

Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  pray- 
ing for  her. 

And  tell  my  son  that  I died  blessing 
him. 

And  say  to  Philip  that  I blest  him 
too ; 

He  never  meant  us  any  thing  but  good. 

But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me 
dead, 

Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them 
come, 

I am  their  father ; but  she  must  not 
come, 

For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after- 
life. 

And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my 
blood 


Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to- 
be : 

This  hair  is  his : she  cut  it  off  and 
gave  it, 

And  I have  borne  it  with  me  all  these 
years. 

And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my 
grave ; 

But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I 
shall  see  him, 

My  babe  in  bliss : wherefore  when  I 
am  gone, 

Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort 
her : 

It  will  moreover  be  a token  to  her, 

That  I am  he." 

He  ceased  ; and  Miriam  Lane 

Made  such  a voluble  answer  promis- 
ing all, 

That  once  again  he  roll’d  his  eyes  up- 
on her 

Repeating  all  he  wish’d,  and  once  again 

She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 

While  Enoch  slumber’d  motionless 
and  pale, 

And  Miriam  watch’d  and  dozed  at 
intervals, 

There  came  so  loud  a ‘calling  of  the  sea, 

That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 

He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms 
abroad 

Crying  with  a loud  voice  “A  sail!  a 
sail ! 

I am  saved ; " and  so  fell  back  and 
spoke  no  more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 

And  when  they  buried  him  the  little 
port 

I Had  seldom  seen  a costlier  funeral. 


480 


m 





IN  MEMORIAM. 


I Ob  Av-uU?  . . 

IN  MEMORIAM  A.  H.  H. 


OBIIT  MDCCCXXXni. 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy 
face, 

By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and 
shade ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and 
brute ; 

Thou  madest  Death  ; and  lo,  thy 
foot 

Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not 
why, 

He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die; 

And  thou  hast  made  him : thou  art 
just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood, 
thou  : 

Our  wills  aite  ours,  we  know  not 
how ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them 
thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day , 

They  have  their  day  and  cease 
to  be : 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of 
thee, 

And  thou,  O Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith : we  cannot  know  ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from 
thee, 

A beam  in  darkness  : let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to 
more, 

But  more  of  reverence  in  us 
dwell ; 


That  mind  and  soul,  according 
well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.  We  are  fools  and  slight; 

We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not 
fear: 

But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem’d  my  sin  in  me ; 

What  seem’d  my  worth  since  I 
began ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 

Thy  creature,  whom  I found  so 
fair. 

I trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering 
cries, 

Confusions  of  a wasted  youth  ; 

Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in 
truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

1849. 

i. 

I held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 

To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 

That  men  may  rise  on  stepping- 
stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 

And  find  in  loss  a gain  to  match  ? 

Or  reach  a hand  thro’  time  to 
catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  D 
drown’d, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


481 


Let  darkness  keep  her  raven 
gross  : 

Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 
To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the 
ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should 
scorn 

The  long  result  of  love,  and 
boast, 

« Behold  the  man  that  loved  and 
lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn.” 

ii. 

Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead, 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 
Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the 
flock; 

And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the 
clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 
To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of 
gloom : 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 

Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 
And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 

ill. 

O Sorrow,  cruel  fellowship, 

\ O Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O sweet  and  bitter  in  a breath, 
What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  ? 

* The  stars,”  she  whispers,  “ blindly 
run ; 

A web  is  wov’n  across  the  sky ; 
Prom  out  waste  places  comes  a 
cry,  „ . 

And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun : 


« And  all  the  phantom.  Nature 
stands  — 

With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 

A hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — 

A hollow  form  with  empty  hands.” 

And  shall  I take  a thing  so  blind, 

Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a vice  of  blood, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  ? 

IV. 

To  Sleep  I give  my  powers  away ; \ 
My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark;  y 
I sit  within  a helmless  bark, 

And  with  my  heart  I muse  and  say : 

O heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 
That  thou  should’st  fail  from  thy 
desire, 

Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire, 

“ What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ? ” 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost. 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early 
years. 

Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling 
tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken’d 
eyes ; 

With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and 
cries, 

“ Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss, 
v. 

I sometimes  hold  it  half  a sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  re- 
veal 

And  half-  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A use  in  measured  language  lies ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I’ll  wrap  me  o’er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the 
cold : 


182 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


But  that  large  grief  which  these 
enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

VI. 

One  writes,  that  “ Other  friends  re- 
main,” 

That  “ Loss  is  common  to  the 
race  ” — 

And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more : 
Too  common ! Never  morning 
wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

0 father,  wheresoe’er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgestnowthy  gallant  son; 
A shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be 
done, 

Hath  still’d  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

0 mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor,  — while  thy  head  is 
bow’d 

His  heavy-shotted  hammock- 
shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him 
well ; 

Who  mused  on  all  I had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something 
thought ; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home ; 

And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  “ here  to- 
day,” 

Or  “ here  to-morrow  will  he  come.” 

O somewhere,  meek,  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father’s  chimney  glows 
In  expectation  of  a guest ; 


And  thinking  “ this  will  please 
him  best,” 

She  takes  a riband  or  a rose ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color 
burns ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she 
turns 

Once  more  to  set  a ringlet  right ; 

And,  even  when  she  turn’d,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  Lord 
Was  drown’d  in  passing  thro’  the 
ford, 

Or  kill’d  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good 
To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 

And  unto  me  no  second  friend,  f 

VII. 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I 
stand 

Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used 
to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a hand, 

A hand  that  can  be  clasp’d  no  more  — 
Behold  me,  for  I cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a guilty  thing  I creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ; but  far  away 

The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro’  the  drizzling 
rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank 
day. 

VIII. 

A happy  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  ’lights  and  rings  the  gate- 
way bell, 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from 
home ; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


48* 


Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and 
haii,  , .. 

And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 
The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

So  find  I every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to 
meet, 

The  field,  the  chamber  and  the 
street, 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 
Which  once  she  foster’d  up  with  care ; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0 my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

I But  since  it  pleased  a vanish’d  eye, 

1 go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 

That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 

IX. 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur’s  loved  re- 
mains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him 
o’er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ; a favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror’d  mast,  and  lead 
Thro’  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor, 
bright 

As  our  pure  love,  thro’  early  light 
Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 
Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the 
prow ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps 
now, 

My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 


My  Arthur,  whom  I shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow’d  race  be  run ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

x. 

I hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 

I hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night 
I see  the  cabin-window  bright ; 

I see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bring’st  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 

And  travell’d  men  from  foreign 
lands ; 

And  letters  unto  trembling  hands ; 
And,  thy  dark  freight,  a vanish’d  life. 

So  bring  him : we  have  idle  dreams : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies  : O to  us, 
The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the 
rains, 

Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet 
drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  Cod  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in 
brine ; 

And  hands  so  often  clasp  d in 
mine,  n 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 

XI. 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a calmer  grief, 
And  only  thro’  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drencn 
the  furze, 

And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 
That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn 
bowers. 


484 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  crowded  farms  and  lessening 
towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the 
fall; 

And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 
If  any  calm,  a calm  despair : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 
And  waves  that  sway  themselves 
in  rest, 

And  dead  calm  in  that  noble 
breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving 
deep. 

XII. 

Lo,  as  a dove  when  up  she  springs 
To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a tale  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 
The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings ; 

Like  her  I go  ; I cannot  stay  ; 

I leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 

A weight  of  nerves  without  a mind, 
And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 

And  reach  the  glow  of  southern 
skies, 

And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 
And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  saying ; “ Comes  he  thus,  my 
friend  l. 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  ? ” 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air: 

“ Is  this  the  end  ? Is  this  the  end  ? ” 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn 
That  I have  been  an  hour  away. 

XIII. 

Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms, 
and  feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these ; 


Which  weep  a loss  for  ever  new, 

A void  where  heart  on  heart  re- 
posed ; 

And,  where  warm  hands  have 
prest  and  closed, 

Silence,  till  I be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my 
choice, 

An  awful  thought,  a life  re- 
moved, 

The  human-hearted  man  I loved, 

A Spirit,  not  a breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many 
years, 

I do  not  suffer  in  a dream  : 

For  now  so  strange  do  these 
things  seem, 

Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their 
tears ; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And  glance  about  the  approach- 
ing sails, 

As  tho'  they  brought  but  mer- 
chants' bales, 

And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 


XIV. 

If  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 

That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land 
to-day, 

And  I went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with 
woe, 

Should  see  thy  passengers  in 
rank 

Come  stepping  lightly  down  the 
plank, 

Arid  beckoning  unto  those  they  know; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 

The  man  I held  as  half-divine ; 

Should  strike  a sudden  hand  in 
mine, 

And  ask  a thousand  things  of  home; 


IN  MF.MORIAM. 


485 


And  I should  tell  him  all  my  pain,  I 
And  how  my  life  had  droop’d  of  | 
late, 

And  he  should  sorrow  o’er  my 
state 

.And  marvel  what  possess’d  my  brain ; 

And  I perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the 
same, 

I should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange, 
xv. 

To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 

And  roar  from  yonder  dropping 
day: 

The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl’d  away, 
The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies ; 

The  forest  crack’d,  the  waters  curl’d, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea; 
And  wildly  dash’d  on  tower  and 
tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world : 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 

That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a plane  of  molten  glass, 
l scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and 
stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches 
loud ; 

And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 

The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 
Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 

And  onward  drags  a laboring 
breast, 

And  topples  round  the  dreary 
west, 

A looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 
XVI. 

What  words  are  these  have  fall  n 
from  me  ? 

Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a single  breast, 

Or  sorrow  such  a changeling  be  1 


Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or 
storm ; 

But  knows  no  more  of  transient 
form 

In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  the  shadow  of  a lark 

Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a heaven  ? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly 
given, 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she 
sink  1 

And  stunn’d  me  from  my  power 
to  think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself  ; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 

Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new, 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 
And  mingles  all  without  a plan 

XVII. 

Thou  comest,  much  wept  for  : such  a 
breeze 

Compell’d  thy  canvas,  and  my 
prayer 

Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 
To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I in  spirit  saw  thee  move 

Thro’  circles  of  the  bounding 
sky, 

Week  after  week:  the  days  go 
by : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  may’st 
roam,  # 

My  blessing,  like  a line  of  light, 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night, 
And  like  a beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 

Mid-ocean,  spare  thee,  sacred 

And  balmy  drops  in  summer 
5 dark 

j Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  start. 


486 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


, aaaAT 


1A 


£ 


So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by 
thee ; 

The  dust  of  him  I shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow’d  race  be  run. 

XVIII. 

’Tis  well ; His  something ; we  may 
stand 

Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

’Tis  little  ; but  it  looks  in  truth 

As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the 
head 

That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of 
sleep, 

And  come,  whatever  loves  to 
weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev’n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 

I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 

* Would  breathing  thro’  his  lips 
impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer 
mind, 

Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot 
find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX. 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken’d  heart  that  beat  no 
more ; 

They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant 
shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a day  the  Severn  fills ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 

And  hushes  half  the  babbling 
Wye, 

And  makes  a silence  in  the  hills. 


The  Wye  is  hush’d  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush’d  my  deepest  grief  of 
all, 

When  fill’d  with  tears  that  can- 
not fall, 

I brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls ; 

My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 

And  I can  speak  a little  then. 

xx. 

The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said, 
That  breathe  a thousand  tender 
vows, 

Are  but  as  servants  in  a house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is, 

And  weep  the  fulness  from  the 
mind : 

“ It  will  be  hard,”  they  say,  “ to 
find 

Another  service  such  as  this.” 

My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 
That  out  of  words  a comfort 
win ; 

But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain 
freeze ; 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  ' that  atmosphere  of 
Death, 

And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the 
breath, 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit : 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 

So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and 
think, 

“ How  good ! how  kind ! and  he  is 
gone.” 

XXI. 

I sing  to  him  that  rests  below, 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  me 
wave. 


IN  MEM  OKI  AM. 


487 


I take  the  grasses  of  the  grave, 
And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to 
blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 
And  sometimes  harshly  will  he 
speak : 

“ This  fellow  would  make  weak- 
ness weak, 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men.” 

Another  answers,  “ Let  him  be, 

He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 
The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy.” 

A third  is  wroth  : “ Is  this  an  hour 
Tor  private  sorrow’s  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more  the  people 
throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  '! 

“ A time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 

When  Science  reaches  forth  her 
arms 

To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and 

t charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  ? ” 


And  we  with  singing  cheer’d  the  way, 
And,  crown’d  with  all  the  season 
lent, 

From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May : 

But  where  the  path  we  walk’d  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 
As  we  descended  following  Hope, 
There  sat  the  Shadow  fear’d  of  man; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship, 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  arid 
cold, 

And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the 
fold, 

And  dull’d  the  murmur  on  thy  lip, 

And  bore  thee  where  I could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho’  I walk  in  haste, 
And  think,  that  somewhere  in  the 
waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 

XXIII. 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits, 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 
The  Shadow  cloak’d  from  head  to  foot, 


Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing  : 

Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust: 
I do  but  sing  because  I must, 
And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing : 


f; 


And  one  is  glad  ; her  note  is  gay, 

For  now  her  little  ones  have 
ranged; 

And  one  is  sad ; her  note  is 
Changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol’n  away. 


XXII. 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 
Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased 
us  well, 

Thro’  four  sweet  years  arose  and 
fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to 
snow : 


Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I wander,  often  falling  lame, 

And  looking  back  to  whence  I 
came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ; 

And  crying,  How  changed  from  where 
it  ran 

Thro’  lands  where  not  a leaf  was 
dumb ; 

But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 

The  murmur  of  a happy  Pan: 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy 
caught, 

And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed 
with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  witb 
Speech ; 


IN  MEMORIAL. 


And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 
And  all  was  good  that  Time  could 
bring, 

And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 
Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood ; 

And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 
To  many  a flute  of  Arcady. 

XXIV. 

And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I say  ? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 
Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of 
night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met. 

This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look’d  to  human  eyes 
Since  our  first  Sun  arose  and  set. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so 
great  'i 

The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 
That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief  1 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 
A glory  from  its  being  far ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 

XXV. 

I know  that  this  was  life,  — the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we 
fared ; 

And  then,  as  now,  the  day  pre- 
pared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 

I loved  the  weight  I had  to  bear, 
Because  it  needed  help  of  Love : 

Nor  could  I weary,  heart  or  limb, 

When  mighty  Love  would  cleave 
in  twain 

The  lading  of  a single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 


XXVI. 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way ; 

I with  it ; for  I long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker 
Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power 
to  see 

Within  the  green  the  moulder'd 
tree, 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built  — 

Oh,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 

In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more 
And  Love  the  indifference  to  be, 

Then  might  I find,  ere  yet  the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas, 
That  shadow  waiting  with  the 
keys, 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVII. 

I envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 
That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  : 

I envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 

His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter’d  by  the  sense  of  crime, 
To  whom  a conscience  never  wakes  ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted 
troth 

But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of 
sloth ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I hold  it  true,  what’er  befall ; 

I feel  it,  when  I sorrow  most ; 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of 
Christ : 

The  moon  is  hid  ; the  night  is  still 


IN  MEM  ORIAM. 


489 


'Hie  Christmas  hells  from  hill  to 
nill 

Answer  each  other  ir  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 
From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and 
moor, 

Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  : 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  de- 
crease, 

Peace  and  goodwill,  goodwill  and 
peace, 

Peace  and  goodwill,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I almost  wish’d  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would 
break 

before  I heard  those  bells  again : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 

For  theycontroll’d  mewhenaboy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch’d 
with  joy, 

The  merry  merry  bells  of  Yule 

XXIX. 

With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve; 

Which  brings  no  more  a welcome 
guest 

To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the 
night 

With  shower’d  largess  of  delight 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest  ? 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly  boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use 
and  Wont, 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house ; 

Old  sisters  of  a day  gone  by, 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new  ; 
Why  should  they  miss  their 
yearly  due 

Before  their  time  ? They  too  will 
die. 


XXX. 

With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas 
hearth ; 

A rainy  cloud  possess’d  the  earth. 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gambol’d,  making  vain  pre- 
tence 

Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused:  the  winds  were  in  the 
beech : 

We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter 
land ; 

And  in  a circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang  ; 

We  sung,  tho’  every  eye  was  dim, 

A merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  : impetuously  we  sang  : 

We  ceased  : a gentler  feeling  crept 

Upon  us  : surely  rest  is  meet : 

“ They  rest,”  we  said,  “ their  sleep 
is  sweet,” 

And  silence  follow’d,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a higher  range; 

Once  more  we  sang : “ They  do 
not  die 

Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they 
change ; 

u Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 

With  gather’d  power,  yet  the 
same, 

Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil.” 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn, 

Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from 
night : 

O Father,  touch  the  east,  and 
light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was 
born. 


490 


IN  MEMO RI AM. 


XXXI. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary’s  house  re- 
turn’d, 

Was  this  demanded  — if  he  yearn’d 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  % 

J‘  Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those 
four  days  % ” 

There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbors  met, 
The  streets  were  fill’d  with  joyful 
sound, 

A solemn  gladness  even  crown’d 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 
The  rest  remaineth  unreveal’d ; 
He  told  it  not;  or  something 
seal’d 

The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  ad- 
mits 

But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he 
sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is 
there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother’s 
face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

I 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  com- 
plete, 

She  bows,  she  bathes  the 
Saviour’s  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful 
prayers. 

Whose  loves  in  higher  love  en- 
dure ; 


What  souls  possess  themselves  sc 
pure, 

Or  is  their  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 

XXXIII. 

0 thou  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reach’d  a 
purer  air, 

Whose  faith  has  centre  every- 
where, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy 
views ; 

Nor  thou  with  shadow’d  hint  con- 
fuse 

A life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro’  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good  : 
Oh,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 
To  which  she  links  a truth  divine ! 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a world  of  sin, 
And  ev’n  for  want  of  such  a type. 

XXXIV. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me 
this, 

That  life  shall  live  for  evermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 
And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is ; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 
Without  a conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I ? 
’Twere  hardly  worth  my  while  to 
choose 

Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A little  patience  ere  I die ; 

’Twere  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 
Like  birds  the  charming  serpen# 
draws. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


491 


To  drop  head-foremost  in  the 
jawj. 

Of  vacant  darkness  and  to  cease. 


XXXV. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could 
trust 

Should  murmur  from  the  narrow 
house, 

“ The  cheeks  drop  in ; the  body 
bows  ; 

Man  dies  : nor  is  there  hope  in  dust : ” 

Might  I not  say  ? “ Yet  even  here, 

But  for  one  hour,  O Love,  I strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a thing  alive  : ” 

But  I should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  moanings  of  the  homeless  sea, 
The  sound  of  streams  that  swift 
or  slow 

Draw  down  Ionian  hills,  and 
sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a sigh, 
“The  sound  of  that  forgetful 
shore 

Will  change  my  sweetness  more 
and  more, 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I shall  die.” 

O me,  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case  ? If  Death  were 
seen 

At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not 
been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 
Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 
Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush’d 
the  grape, 

And  bask’d  and  batten’d  in  the  woods. 


XXXVI. 

Fho’  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
'fp  We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 
Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin; 


For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall 
fail, 

When  truth  embodied  in  a tale 
Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and 
wrought 

With  human  hands  the  creed  of 
creeds 

In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 
More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought*, 

Which  he  may  read  that  binhs  the 
sheaf, 

Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the 
grave, 

And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch 
the  wave 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 
XXXVII. 

Urania  speaks  with  darken’d  brow : 
“Thou  pratest  here  where  thou 
art  least ; 

This  faith  has  many  a purer  priest, 
And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

“ Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 

On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 
About  the  ledges  of  the  hill.” 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek ; 
“ I am  not  worthy  ev’n  to  speak 
Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries  ; 

“ For  I am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 

And  owning  but  a little  art 
io  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart 
And  render  human  love  his  dues ; 

“ But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 
To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said), 

“ I murmur’d,  as  I came  along, 

Of  comfort  clasp’d  in  truth  re- 
veal’d ; 

And  loiter’d  in  the  master’s  field, 
And  darken’d  sanctities  with  song.” 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


*92 


XXXVIII. 

With  weary  steps  I loiter  on, 

Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 
My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 


No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring. 
But  in  the  songs  I love  to  sing 
A doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 


If  any  care  for  what  is  here 

Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I sing  of 
thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 


XXXIX. 

Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones, 
And  answering  now  my  random 
stroke 

With  fruitful  cloud  and  living 
smoke, 

Dark  yew,  that  graspest  at  the  stones 


And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that 
come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes ; 


And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's 
face, 

As  parting  with  a long  embrace 
She  enters  other  realms  of  lover 


Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach. 
Becoming  as  is  meet  and  fit 
A link  among  the  days,  to  knit 
The  generations  each  with  each; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  those  great  offices  that  suit 
The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 


Ay  me,  the  difference  I discern ! 

How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the 
bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return, 


And  dippest  toward  the  dreamless 
head, 

To  thee  too  comes  the  golden  hour 

When  flower  is  feeling  after 
flower ; 

But  Sorrow  — fixt  upon  the  dead, 

And  darkening  the  dark  graves  of 
men,  — 

What  whisper'd  from  her  lying 
lips  ? 

Thy  gloom  is  kindled  at  the  tips, 

And  passes  into  gloom  again. 


And  tell  them  all  they  would  have 
told, 

And  bring  her  babe,  and  make 
her  boast, 

Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her 
most 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old : 

But  thou  and  I have  shaken  hands, 

Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low  ; 

My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 


XL. 

Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour 

And  look  on  Spirits  breathed 
away, 

As  on  a maiden  in  the  day 
/{/hen  first  she  wears  her  orange- 
flower  ! 

flfhen  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth 
rise 

To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 


XLI. 

Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher ; 

As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar- 
fire, 

As  flies  the  lighter  thro'  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  turn'd  to  something 
strange, 

And  I have  lost  the  links  that 
bound 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


493 


Thy  changes ; here  upon  the 
ground, 

o more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Jeep  folly  ! yet  that  this  could  be  — 
That"  I could  wing  my  will  with 
might 

To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and 
light, 

aid  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee/ 

'or  tho’  my  nature  rarely  yields 

To  that  vague  fear  implied  in 
death ; 

Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 
?he  howlings  from  forgotten  fields  ; 

ret  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 
An  inner  trouble  I behold, 

A spectral  doubt  which  makes  me 
cold, 

Chat  I shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

[W  following  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to 
thee, 

Thro’  all  the  secular  to-be, 

3ut  evermore  a life  behind. 

XLII. 

[ vex  my  heart  with  fancies  dim : 

He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 
That  made  me  dream  I rank’d  with 
him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 

And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A lord  of  large  experience,  train 
To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit’s  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves  but  knows 
not,  reaps 

A truth  from  one  that  loves  and 
knows  ? 

XJAII. 

j If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 

And  every  spirit’s  folded  bloom 


Thro’  all  its  intervital  gloom 
Iv_  aome  long  trance  should  slumber  on , 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 

Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 

And  silent  traces  of  the  past 
Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower: 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man ; 

So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a figured  leaf  enrolls 
The  total  world  since  life  began ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in 
Time, 

And  at  the  spiritual  prime 
Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

,„v. 

How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead  ? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and 
more ; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head.  / 

The  days  have  vanish’d,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding 
sense 

Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not 
whence) 

A little  flash,  a mystic  hint ; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean 
springs), 

May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly 
things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a dreamy  touch  should  fall, 

O turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  y 
doubt ; 

My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 
In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLV. 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 

What  time  his  tender  pa'm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast. 
Has  never  thought  that  “ this  is  Is* 


49* 


IN’  MEMORIAM. 


But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 

And  learns  the  use  of  “ I,”  and 
“ me,” 

And  finds  “ I am  not  what  I see, 

And  other  than  the  things  I touch.” 

So  rounds  he  to  a separate  mind 

From  whence  clear  memory  may 
begin, 

As  thro’  the  frame  that  binds  him 
in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 

Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their 
due, 

Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 

XLVI. 

We  ranging  down  this  lower  track, 

The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and 
flower, 

Is  shadow’d  by  the  growing  hour, 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it : there  no  shade  can  last 

In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the 
tomb, 

But  clear  from  marge  to  marge 
shall  bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past ; 

A lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal’d ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase; 

Days  order’d  in  a wealthy  peace, 

And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

O Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 

A bounded  field,  nor  stretching 
far ; 

Look  also,  Love,  a brooding  star, 

A rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 

XLVII. 

That  each,  who  seems  a separate 
whole, 

Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fus- 
ing all 

The  skirts  of  self  again,  should 
fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 


Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet: 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside ; 

And  I shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 
Enjoying  each  the  other’s  good : 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the 
mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ? He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpen  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place,  to  clasp  and 
say, 

“ Farewell ! We  lose  ourselves  in 
light.” 

XLVIII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here 
proposed, 

Then  these  were  such  as  men  mighl 
scorn : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove ; 
She  takes,  when  harsher  moods 
remit, 

What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may 
flit, 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love : 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with 
words. 

But  better  serves  a wholesome 
law, 

And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  tc 
draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a larger  lay, 

But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow -flights  of  song,  th* 
dip 

Their  wings  in  fears,  and  skim  away. 

XLIX. 

From  art,  from  nature,  from  fh< 
schools, 

Let  random  influences  glance. 


IN  MEMORIA M. 


495 


Like  light  in  many  ashiver’d  lance 
That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy’s  tenderest  eddy 
wreathe, 

The  slightest  air  of  song  shall 
breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 
But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that 
make 

The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 
The  tender-pencil’d  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears 
Ay  me,  the  sorrow  deepens  down, 
Whose  muffled  motions  blindly 
drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 

L. 

Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the 
nerves  prick 

And  tingle  ; and  the  heart  is  sick, 
And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Is  rack’d  with  pangs  that  conquer 
trust ; 

And  Time,  a maniac  scattering 
dust, 

And  Life,  a Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 
And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting 
and  sing 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 
The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 


Is  there  no  baseness  we  would 
hide  ? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I strove, 

I had  such  reverence  for  his 
blame, 

See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden 
shame 

And  I be  lessen’d  in  his  love  ? 

I wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  . 

Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of 
faith  2 

There  must  be  wisdom  with  great 
Death : 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro’  and  thro*.  ) 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling 
hours 

With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 

LII 

I cannot  love  thee  as  I ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  be 
loved ; 

My  words  are  only  words,  and 
moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

“ Yet  blame  not  thou  my  plaintive 

song,” 

The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied  ; 

“ Thou  canst  not  move  me  from 
thy  side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

“ What  keeps  a spirit  wholly  true 

To  that  ideal  which  he  bears  2 

What  record?  not  the  sinless 
years 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian 
blue : 

“ So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 

That  life  is  dash’d  with  flecks  of 
sin. 

Abide  : thy  wealth  is  gather’d  in> 

When  Time  hath  sunder’d  shell  from 
pearl.” 


496 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LIII. 

How  many  a father  have  I seen, 

A sober  man,  among  his  boys, 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish 
noise, 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and 
green : 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 

That  had  the  wild  oat  not  been 
sown, 

The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  had 
grown 

The  grain  by  which  a man  may  live  1 

Or,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 

For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth, 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a 
truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  ? 

Hold  thou  the  good : define  it  well  : 
For  fear  divine  Philosophy 
Should  push  beyond  her  mark, 
and  be 

Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 

LIV. 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 

To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  de- 
stroy’d, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  com- 
plete ; 

That  not  a worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell’d  in  a fruitless  fire. 

Or  but  subserves  another’s  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 

I can  but  trust  that  good  shall 
fall 

At  last  — far  off  — at  last  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 


So  runs  my  dream . but  what  am  1 7 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 
And  with  no  language  but  a cry. 

LV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have' 
The  likest  God  within  the  soul  7 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil 
dreams  7 

So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems. 
So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 
She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I falter  where  I firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of 
cares 

Upon  the  great  world’s  altar-stairs 
That  slope  thro’  darkness  up  to  G^d, 

I stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and 
grope, 

Amd  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and 
call 

To  what  I feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  *<trger  hope. 

LVI. 

“ So  careful  of  the  type  ? ” but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried 
stone 

She  cries,  “ A thousand  types  are 
gone : 

I care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

“ Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me: 

I bring  to  life,  I bring  to  death 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the 
breath : 

I know  no  more.”  And  he,  shall  he. 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so 
fair. 


IN  MEMORIAM, 


497 


Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roil'd  the  psalm  to  wintry 
skies, 

Vho  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless 
prayer, 

Vho  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law  — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and 
claw 

Vith  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his 
creed  — 

TTho  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills. 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the 
Just, 

Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

)r  seal’d  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

Jo  more  ? A monster  then,  a dream, 
A discord.  Dragons  of  the 
prime, 

That  tare  each  other  in  their 
slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

) life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and 
bless ! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 
behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

LVII. 

5eace  ; come  away  : the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song: 
Peace ; come  away ; we  do  him 
wrong 

Co  sing  so  wildly  : let  us  go. 

Borne ; let  us  go : your  cheeks  are 
pale ; 

But  half  my  life  I leave  behind  : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly 
shrined ; 

But  I shall  pass ; my  work  will  fail 

7et  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
. ^be  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 
rh&t  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 


I hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 
And  “ Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 

“ Adieu,  adieu  ” for  evermore. 

LVIII. 

In  those  sad  words  I took  farewell : 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 
In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell ; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to- 
day, 

Half-conscious  of  their  dying 
clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they 
shall  cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer'd : “ Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a fruitless 
tear  'i 

Abide  a little  longer  here, 

And  thou  shalt  take  a nobler  leave.” 

LIX.  # 

O Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a wife, 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of 
life ; 

As  I confess  it  needs  must  be ; 

O Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 

Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a bride, 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside, 
If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move, 

Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day  ; 
But  I'll  have  leave  at  times  to 

play 

As  with  the  creature  of  my  love ; 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 
With  so  much  hope  for  years  to 
come, 

That,  howsoe'er  I know  thee,  some 
Could  hardly  tell  what  name  wer§ 

thine. 


498 


IN  MEM0R1AM. 


LX. 

He  past ; a soul  of  nobler  tone : 

My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him 
yet, 

Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart 
is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere, 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot, 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not 
what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn  ; 

She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days, 
Moving  about  the  household 
ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was 
born. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go, 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws 
by: 

At  night  she  weeps,  “ How  vain 
am  I ! 

How  should  he  *love  a thing  so  low  ? ” 

LXX. 

If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 

Thy  ransom’d  reason  change 
replies 

With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time  ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 
How  dimly  character’d  and  slight, 
How  dwarf’d  a growth  of  cold  and 
night, 

How  blanch’d  with  darkness  must  I 
growl 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 
Where  thy  hrst  form  was  made  a 
man ; 

I loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor 
can 

The  soul  of  Shakspeare  love  thee  more. 


Lxn, 

Tho*  if  an  eye  that’s  downward  cast 
Could  make  thee  somewhat  blend 
or  fail, 

Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 
And  fading  legend  of  the  past; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy 
But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind ; 

And  breathes  a novel  world,  the  whil 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies, 

Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 
Is  matter  for  a flying  smile. 

LXIII. 

Yet  pity  for  a horse  o’er-driven, 

And  love  in  which  my  hound  ha 
part, 

Can  hang  no  weight  upon  m 
heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven  ; 

And  I am  so  much  more  than  these, 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  thai 

I, 

And  yet  I spare  them  sympathy 
And  I would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I weep 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound, 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  roum 
A higher  height,  a deeper  deep. 

LXIV. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hat] 
been, 

As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth’s  invidious  bai 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happ; 
chance, 

And  breasts  the  blows  of  circum 
stance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star; 


IN  MEM0R1AM. 


499 


Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden 
keys, 

To  mould  a mighty  state's  decrees, 
And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune’s  crowning 
slope 

The  pillar  of  a people’s  hope, 

The  centre  of  a world’s  desire ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a pensive  dream, 

When  all  his  active  powers  are 
still, 

A distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate. 

While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play’d  at  counsellors  and  kings, 
With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands ; 
" Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ? ” 

LXV. 

Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt; 

I lull  a fancy  trouble-tost 
With  “ Love’s  too  precious  to  be 
lost, 

A little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt.” 

And  in  that  solace  can  I sing, 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a happy  thought, 
Self-balanced  on  a lightsome  wing : 


The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost, 
Which  makes  a desert  in  the  mind, 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind5/ 
And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost  y 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro’  the  land, 
Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is 
free, 

Who  ta*kes  the  children  on  his 
knee. 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand  : 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his 
chair 

For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky* 
His  inner  day  can  never  die,  I 
His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 

LXVII. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west. 
There  comes  a glory  on  the  walls : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 

As  slowly  steals  a silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 
And  o’er  the  number  of  thy  years- 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away ; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight 
dies ; 

And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 
I sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray: 

And  then  I know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church  like  a 
ghost 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 


Bince  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 

A part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee 
And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 


LX  VI. 


You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 
Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 


LXVIII. 

When  in  the  down  I sink  my  head, 
Sleep,  Death’s  twin-brother,  times 
my  breath ; 

Sleep,  Death’s  twin-brother, knowi 
not  Death, 

Nor  can  I dream  of  thee  as  dead : 

I walk  as  ere  I walk’d  forlorn, 

When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with 
dew. 


500 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 
Reveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 

But  what  is  this  % I turn  about, 

I find  a trouble  in  thine  eye, 
Which  makes  me  sad  I know  not 
why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt : 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 
I wake,  and  I discern  the  truth ; 
It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 
That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 


LXIX. 

I dream’d  there  would  be  Spring  no 
more, 

That  Nature’s  ancient  power  was 
lost : 

The  streets  were  black  with  smoke 
and  frost, 

They  chatter’d  trifles  at  the  door : 

I wander’d  from  the  noisy  town, 

I found  a wood  with  thorny 
boughs : 

I took  the  thorns  to  bind  my 
brows, 

I wore  them  like  a civic  crown  : 

I met  with  scoffs,  I met  with  scorns  * 

From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary 
hairs : 

They  call’d  me  in  the  public 
squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a crown  of  thorns . 

They  call’d  me  fool,  they  call’d  me 
child  : 

I found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 

The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was 
bright ; 

He  look’d  upon  my  crown  and  smiled  : 

He  reach’d  the  glory  of  a hand, 

That  seem’d  to  touch  it  into  leaf : 

The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of 

grief, 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 


LXX. 

I cannot  see  the  features  right, 

When  on  the  gloom  I strive  to 
paint 

The  face  I know;  the  hues  are 
faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night ; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons 
wrought, 

A gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A hand  that  points,  and  palled 
shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawn- 
ing doors, 

And  shoals  of  pucker’d,  faces 
drive ; 

Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 
And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores  ; 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 
I hear  a wizard  music  roll, 

And  thro’  a lattice  on  the  soul 
Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 

LXX  I 

Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and 
trance 

And  madness,  thou  hast  forged 
at  last 

A night-long  Present  of  the  Past 
In  which  we  went  thro’  summer 
France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul  ? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly 
strong, 

Drug  down  the  blindfold  sense  of 
wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk’d 
Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  ol 
change, 

The  days  that  grow  to  something 
strange, 

In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk  d 


501 


MV*  '/)ryVW  ! 

JN  MEMORIAM. 


Beside  the  river’s  wooded  reach, 

The  fortress,  and  the  mountain 
ridge, 

The  cataract  flashing  from  the 
bridge, 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 
lxxii. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar 
white, 

And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming 
pane  ? 

Day,  when  my  crown’d  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom,  , 
Which  sicken’d  every  living 
bloom, 

And  blurr’d  the  splendor  of  the  sun  ; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  quick  tears  that  make 
the  rose 

Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower ; 

Who  might’st  have  heaved  a windless 
flame 

Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering, 
play’d 

A chequer-work  of  beam  and 
shade 

Along  the  hills,  yet  look’d  the  same. 


As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now ; 

Day,  mark’d  as  with  some  hideous 
crime, 

When  the  dark  hand  struck  down 
thro’  time, 

And  cancell’d  nature’s  best : but  thou, 

Lift  as  thou  may’st  thy  burthen’d 
brows 

Thro’  clouds  that  drench  the 
morning  star, 

And  whirl  the  ungarner’d  sheaf 
afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs,  ’ 


And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous 
day ; 

Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless 
gray, 

And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the 
ground. 


LXXIII. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 

So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I what  had  need  of 
thee, 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true? 

The  fame  is  quench’d  that  I foresaw, 
The  head  hath  miss’d  an  earthly 
wreath : 

I curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death  ; 
For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass ; the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 
In  endless  age  ? It  rests  with  God. 

O hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul 
exults, 

And  self-infolds  the  large  results 
Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a 
name. 

LXXIV. 

As  sometimes  in  a dead  man’s  face, 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and 
more, 

A likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 
Comes  out  — to  some  one  of  his  race. 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 

I see  thee  what  thou  art,  and 
know 

Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 
Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I can  see, 

And  what  I see  I leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has 
made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


502 


IN  MEMORIAM . 


LXXV. 

I leave  thy  praises  unexpress'd 

In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 
I leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd ; 

What  practice  howsoe'er  expert 

In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things, 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that 
sings, 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  ? 

1 care  not  in  these  fading  days 

To  raise  a cry  that  lasts  not  long, 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze 
of  song 

To  stir  a little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green. 
And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the 
sun, 

The  world  which  credit^  what  is 
done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame ; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human 
view, 

Whate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 
Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim, 

LXXVI. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of 
space 

Are  sharpen'd  to  a needle's  end ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight ; lighten  thro' 
The  secular  abyss  to  come, 

And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 
Before  the  mouldering  of  a yew; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last, 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 
Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy 
bowers 

With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are 

vain; 


And  what  are  they  when  these 
remain 

The  ruin'd  shells  of  hollow  towers  7 


LXXVII. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him,  who  turns  a musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives, 
that  lie 

Foreshorten’d  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a book,  may  line  a box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a maiden’s 
locks ; 

Or  when  a thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A man  upon  a stall  may  find. 

And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that 
tells 

A grief,  then  changed  to  some- 
thing else, 

Sung  by  a long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ? My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same ; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than 
fame, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

\ 

LXXVIII. 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas 
hearth ; 

The  silent  snow  possess’d  the 
earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve : 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Again  our  ancient  games  had 
place, 

The  mimic  picture's  breathing 
grace, 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman- 
blind. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


503 


Vho  show’d  a token  pf  distress  ? | 

No  singfe  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 

0 sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 

> grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  ? 

> last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No  — mixt  with  all  this  mystic 
frame, 

Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 
Jut  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 

LXXIX. 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me,”— 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 

1 know  thee  of  what  force  thou 
art 

Co  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

3ut  thou  and  I are  one  in  kind, 

As  moulded  like  in  Nature's  mint; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did 
print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl’d 
Thro’  all  his  eddying  coves  ; the 
same 

All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight 
came 

In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer’d  vows, 
One  lesson  from  one  book  we 
leam’d, 

j Ere  childhood’s  flaxen  ringlet 
turn’d 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 
But  he  was  rich  where  I was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  want  the  more 
As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 


LXXX. 

If  any  vague  desire  should  rise, 

That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his 
side, 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes ; 


Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had 
wrought, 

A grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought, 

But  stay’d  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 

I make  a picture  in  the  brain  ; 

I hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks j 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks 

But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free; 

And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and 
save, 

Unused  example  from  the  grave 

Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 

LXXXI. 

Could  I have  said  while  he  was  here, 

“My  love  shall  now  no  further 
range ; 

There  cannot  come  a mellower 
change, 

For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear.” 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store . 

What  end  is  here  to  my  com- 
plaint ? 

This  haunting  whisper  makes  me 
faint, 

“ More  years  had  made  me  love  thee 
more.” 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 

“ My  sudden  frost  was  sudden 
gain, 

And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain, 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat.” 

LXXXII. 

I wage  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and 
face  ; 

No  lower  life  that  earth’s  embrace 

May  breed  with  him,  can  fright  my 
faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit 
walks ; 


504 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  these  are  but  the  shatter’d 
stalks, 

Or  ruin’d  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 

I know  transplanted  human  worth 
Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my 
heart ; 

He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 
We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 

LXXXIII. 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 

O sweet  new-year  delaying  long; 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature 
wrong ; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded 
noons, 

Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper 
place  ? 

Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 
Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell’s  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash’d  with  fiery  dew, 
Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0 thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a frozen  bud 
And  flood  a fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIV. 

When  1 contemplate  all  alone 

The  life  that  had  been  thine  below, 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the 
glow 

To  \vhich  thy  crescent  would  have 
grown  ; 

1 see  thee  sitting  crown’d  with  good, 

A central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 
In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp 
and  kiss, 

On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood ; 


Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on 
When  thou  should’st  link  thy  lift 
with  one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thint 

Had  babbled  “Uncle”  on  my  knee; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange  flower 
Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 

To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  their 
mine. 

I see  their  unborn  faces  shine 
Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I see  myself  an  honor’d  guest, 

Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  wall 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk, 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 
Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a morn  as  fair; 

And  all  the  train  of  bounteou 
hours 

Conduct  by  paths  of  growing 
powers, 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair ; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe, 
Her  lavish  mission  richlj 
wrought, 

Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought 
Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off  tht 
globe ; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flet 
As  link’d  with  thine  in  love  an* 
fate, 

And,  hovering  o’er  the  dolorou 
strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal, 

And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shinin; 
hand, 

And  take  us  as  a single  soul.  / 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


505 


What  reed  was  that  on  which  I leant  ? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore 
wake 

The  old  bitterness  again,  and 
break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content. 


But  I remain’d,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were 
little  worth, 

To  wander  on  a darken’d  earth, 
Where  all  things  round  me  breathed 
of  him. 


LXXXV. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and 
pall, 

I felt  it,  when  I sorrow’d  most, 
’Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 


O true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common 
grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I lead ; 


And  whether  trust  in  things  above  ^ 
Be  dimm’d  of  sorrow,  or  sustain’d ; 
And  whether  love  for  him  have 
drain’d 

My  capabilities  of  love  ; 


Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A faithful  answer  from  the 
breast, 

Thro’  light  reproaches,  half  ex- 
prest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 


My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message 
falls, 

That  in  Vienna’s  fatal  walls 
God’s  finger  touch’d  him,  and  he  slept. 


The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal 
state, 

In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate, 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome 
there ; 

And  led  him  thro’  the  blissful  climes, 
And  show’d  him  in  the  fountain 
fresh 

All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of 
flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 


O friendship,  equal-poised  control, 

O heart,  with  kindliest  motion 
warm, 

0 sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0 solemn  ghost,  O crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  numan  will  demands 
By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1 felt  and  feel,  tho’  left  alone, 

His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine ; 

A life  that  all  the  Muses  deck’d 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might 
express 

All-comprehensive  tenderness, 
All-subtilizing  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 
And  in  my  grief  a strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual 
strife, 

Diffused  the  shock  thro’  all  my 
life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  I met,1 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 
The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men 

1 I woo  your  love  : I count  it  crime 

To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A friendship  as  had  master’d  Time; 


506 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 

Eternal,  separate  from  fears : 

The  all-assuming  months  and 
years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 

And  Spring  that  swells  the  nar- 
row brooks, 

And  Autumn,  with  a noise  of 
rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 

Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or 
gloom, 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A part  of  stillness,  yearns  to 
speak : 

“Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and 
seek 

A friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

“ I watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach ; 

But  in ' dear  words  of  human 
speech 

We  two  communicate  no  more.” 

And  I,  “ Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 

The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 

How  is  it  ? Canst  thou  feel  for 
me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  'i  ” 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall ; 

“’Tis  hard  for  thee  to  fathom 
this ; 

I triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all.” 

So  hold  I commerce  with  the  dead ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would 
say; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols 
play 

And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 


Now  looking  to  some  settled  end. 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I shall 
prove 

A meeting  somewhere,  love  with 
love, 

I crave  your  pardon,  0 my  friend ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 

I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I could  not,  if  I would,  transfer 
The  whole  I felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  ? 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal 
powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 
But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more, 

My  heart,  tho’  widow’d,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone. 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 
That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I bring, 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXVI. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous 
gloom 

Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 
And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro’  all  the  dewy-tassell’d  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned 
flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy 
breath 

Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt 
and  Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 


IN  MEM  OR  I AM 


507 


rom  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 
. hundred  spirits  whisper  “ Peace.’" 

LXXXVII. 

past  beside  the  reverend  walls 

In  which  of  old  I wore  the  gown; 

I roved  at  random  thro’  the  town, 
nd  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls ; 

nd  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs 
make, 

And  thunder-music, rolling,  shake 
he  prophet  blazon’d  on  the  panes ; 

Lnd  caught  once  more  the  distant 
shout, 

The  measured  pulse  of  racing 
oars 

Among  the  willows ; paced  the 
shores 

k.nd  many  a bridge,  and  all  about 

’he  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same  ; and 
last 

IJp  that  long  walk  of  limes  I past 
'o  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door  * 

I linger’d ; all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands, 
and  boys 

"hat  crash’d  the  glass  and  beat  the 
floor ; 

yhere  once  we  held  debate,  a band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and 
art, 

And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 
Vnd  all  the  framework  of  the  land  ; 

vVlien  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the 
string ; 

And  one  would  pierce  an  outer 
ring, 

knd  one  an  inner,  here  and  there ; 


And  last  the  master-bowman,  he, 

Would  cleave  the  mark.  A wil- 
ling ear 

We  lent  him.  Who,  but  hung  to 
hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

Prom  point  to  point,  with  power  and 
grace 

And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we 
saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise ; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVIII 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet. 
Rings  Eden  thro’  the  budded 
quicks, 

0 tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 

O tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  fierce  extremes  em- 
ploy 

Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of 
grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a secret  joy 

And  I — my  harp  would  prelude 
woe  — 

1 cannot  all  command  the  strings ; 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

LXXXIX 

Witcli-elms  that  counterchange  the 
floor 

Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and 
bright; 

And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth 
and  height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows 
fair, 


508 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 
The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 
They  pleased  him,  fresh  from 
brawling  courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

O joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 

Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 

To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 
The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat  : 

O sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning 
dew, 

The  gust  that  round  the  garden 
flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing 
pears ! 

O bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 

About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 
The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn  : 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 

A guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 

Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and 
flung 

A ballad  to  the  brightening  moon  : 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray, 
And  break  the  lifelong  summer 
day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to 
theme, 

Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or 
hate, 

Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the 
state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream  ; 

But  if  I praised  the  busy  town, 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  “ground  in  yonder  social 
mill 

We  rub  each  other’s  angles  down, 


“ And  merge  " he  said  “ in  form  and 
gloss 

The  picturesque  of  man  and 
man." 

We  talk'd:  the  stream  beneath 
us  ran, 

The  wine-flask  lying  couch’d  in  moss, 

Or  cool'd  within  the  glooming  wave  ; 

And  last,  returning  from  afar, 

Before  the  crimson-circled  star 

Had  fall’n  into  her  father's  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers , 

We  heard  behind  the  woodbine 
veil 

The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honied  hours. 

xc. 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 

Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate 
spring 

Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first 
could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind  ; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying 
eyes 

Were  cldSed^with  wail,  resume 
their  life, 

They  would  but  find  in  child  and 
wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise  : 

'Twas  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with 
wine, 

To  pledge  them  with  a kindly 
tear, 

To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them 
here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine ; 

But  if  they  came  who  past  away, 

Behold  their  brides  in  other 
hands ; 

The  hard  heir  strides  about  their 
lands, 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a day. 

Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of 
these. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


509 


Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would 
make 

Confusion  worse  than  death,  and 
shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  hut  come  thou  back  to  me : 
Whatever  change  the  years  have 
wrought, 

I find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 
That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 

/^Wxoi.  ’ 

When  'rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 
And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted 
thrush ; 

Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 
Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I 
know 

Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy 
peers ; 

The  hope  of  unaccomplish’d  years 
Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer’s  hourly-mellowing 
change 

May  breathe,  with  many  roses 
sweet, 

Upon  the  thousand  waves  of 
wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange ; 

Come : not  in  watches  of  the  night, 
But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth 
warm, 

Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after 
form, 

And  like  a finer  light  in  light, 
xcn. 

If  any  vision  should  reveal 

Thy  likeness,  I might  count  it 
vain 

As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain ; 
Yea,  tho’  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind, 

\ I might  but  say,  I hear  a wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 


Yea,  tho’  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A fact  within  the  coming  year ; 
And  tho’  the  months,  revolving 
near, 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning 
true, 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies. 
But  spiritual  presentiments,  • 
And  such  refraction  of  events 
As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

xcm. 

I shall  not  see  thee.  Dare  I say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native 
land 

Where  first  he  walk’d  when  elaspt  in 
clay  ? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 

But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may 
come 

Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is 
numb ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 
Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter;  hear 
The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to 
name ; 

That  in  this  blindness  of  the 
frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 

XCIV. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, 
With  what  divine  affections  bold 
Should  be  the  man  whose  thought 
would  hold 

An  hour’s  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 

The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canet 
say, 

Mv  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 


510 


IN  MEM  OKI  A M. 


They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair, 

The  memory  like  a cloudless  air, 
The  conscience  as  a sea  at  rest : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 

And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 
And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


XCY. 

By  night  we  linger’d  on  the  lawn, 

For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry; 

And  genial  warmth ; and  o’er  the 
sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 

Unwavering:  not  a cricket  chirr’d: 

The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn  : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 

And  wheel’d  or  lit  the  filmy 
shapes 

That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine 
capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes ; 

While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that 
peal’d 

From  knoll  to  knoll,  where, 
couch’d  at  ease, 

The  white  kine  glimmer’d,  and 
the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 


But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 
Withdrew  themselves  from  me 
and  night, 

And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I was  all  alone, 

A hunger  seized  my  heart ; I read 
Of  that  glad  year  which  once  had 
been. 

In  those  fall’n  leaves  which  kept 
their  green, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead : 


And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
The  silent-speaking  words,  and 
strange 

Was  love’s  dumb  cry  defying 
change 

To  test  his  worth ; and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward 
back, 

And  keen  thro’  wordy  snares  to 
track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 
The  dead  man  touch’d  me  from 
the  past, 

And  all  at  once  it  seem’d  at  last 

The  living  soul  was  flash’d  on  mine, 

And  mine  in  this  was  wound,  and 
whirl’d 

About  empyreal  heights  of 
thought, 

And  came  on  that  which  is,  and 
caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

iEonian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time  — the  shocks 
of  Chance  — 

The  blows  of  Death.  At  length 
my  trance 

Was  cancell’d,  stricken  thro’  with 
doubt. 

Vague  words  ! but  ah,  how  hard  to 
frame 

In  matter-moulded  forms  of 
speech, 

Or  ev’n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro’  memory  that  which  I became  : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal’d 
The  knolls  once  more  where, 
couch’d  at  ease, 

The  white  kine  glimmer’d,  and 
the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field . 

And  suck’d  from  out  the  distant  gloom 
A breeze  began  to  tremble  o’er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore. 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


511 


k.nd  gathering  freslilier  overhead, 

Rock’d  the  full-foliaged  elms, 
and  swung 

The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 
"he  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said 

The  dawn,  the  dawn,”  and  died 
away; 

And  East  and  West,  without  a 
breath, 

Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life 
and  death, 

ft>  broaden  into  boundless  day. 


XCVI. 

Tou  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  seorn, 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light- 
blue  eyes 

Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

{ ou  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

. know  not : one  indeed  I knew 

In  many  a subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch’d  a jarring  lyre  at  first, 
3ut  ever  strove  to  make  it  true : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There  lives  more  faith  in  honest 
doubt, 

Selieve  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

3e  fought  his  doubts  and  gather’d 
strength, 

He  would  not  make  his  judgment 
blind, 

He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 
^nd  laid  them  : thus  he  came  at  length 

Co  find  a stronger  faith  his  own ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the 
night, 

Which  makes  the  darkness  and 
the  light, 

knd  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

lut  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
i As  over  Sinai’s  peaks  of  old, 

| While  Israel  made  their  gods  of 
gold, 

kltho’  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


xcvii. 

My  love  has  talk’d  with  rocks  and 
trees ; 

He  finds  on  misty  mountain- 
ground 

His  own  vast  shadow  glory- 
crown’d ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a married  life  ^=- 

I look’d  on  these  and  thought  of 
thee 

In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a wife. 

These  two  — they  dwelt  with  eye  on 

eye, 

Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  m 
tune, 

Their  meetings  made  December 
June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away ; 

The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet. 

Whate’er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho’  rapt  in  matters  dark  and 
deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

He  looks  so  cold : she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 

A wither’d  violet  is  her  bliss  : 

She  knows  no.t  what  his  great- 
ness is, 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the 
house, 

And  he,  he  knows  a thousand  thing*. 


512 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move, 

She  darkly  feels  him  great  and 
wise,  » 

She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful 
eyes, 

“ I cannot  understand  : I love.” 

XCVIII. 

You  leave  us : you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  1 sail'd  below, 
When  I was  there  with  him ; and 
go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath. 
That  City.  All  her  splendor 
seems 

No  livelier,  than  the  wisp  that 
gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 

Enwind  her  isles,  unmark’d  of 
me : 

I have  not  seen,  I will  not  see 

V i.enna ; rather  dream  that  there, 

A treble  darkness,  Evil  haunts 

The  birth,  the  bridal ; friend  from 
friend 

Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 

Above  more  graves,  a thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 
By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sad- 
ness flings 

Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of 
kings  : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and 
fro 

The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves ; nor  more  content, 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and 
loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and 
tent. 


Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and 
breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 

Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 

xcix. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the 
herds, 

Day,  when  I lost  the  flower  of  men ; 

Who  tremblest  thro’  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll’n  brook  that  bubbles 
fast 

•By  meadows  breathing  of  the 
past, 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead ; 

Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eavee 
A song  that  slights  the  coming 
care, 

And  Autumn  laying  here  anc 
there 

A fiery  finger  on  the  leaves  ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breatl 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

0 wheresoever  those  may  be, 

Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles 
To-day  they  count  as  kindret 
souls ; 

They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  witl 
me. 

c. 

1 climb  the  hill : from  end  to  end 

Of  all  the  landscape  underneatl 
I find  no  place  that  does  nc 
breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold. 
Or  low  morass  and  whisperin 
reed, 

Or  simple  stile  from  mead  t 
mead, 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold; 


IN  MEM  OKI  A M 


513 


Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 

That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trench’d  along  the 
hill 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw ; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right  thro’  meadowy 
curves, 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a kindlier  day  ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 
I think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 

ci. 

Unwatch’d,  the  garden  bough  shall 
sway, 

The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather 
brown, 

This  maple  burn  itself  away ; 


And  year  by  year  our  memory 
fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


cn. 

We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 

Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the 
sky ; 

The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earlier 
cry, 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 


We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 

As  down  the  garden-walks  T 
move, 

Two  spirits  of  a diverse  love 
Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  “ Here  thy  boyhood 
sung  . , 

Long  since  its  matin  song,  and 
heard 

The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 
In  native  hazels  tassel-hung.” 


Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk 
of  seed, 

And  many  a rose-carnation  feed 
1 With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a sandy  bar, 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the 
plain, 

At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  warn 
Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and 
crake ; 

Or  into  silver  arrows  break 
The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

| 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 
A fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape 
grow 

Familiar  to  the  stranger’s  child ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the 
glades , 


The  other  answers,  “ Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  stray’d  in  after 
hours 

With  thy  lost  friend  among  the 
bowers, 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly 
dear.” 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 
And  each  prefers  his  separate 
claim, 

Poor  rivals  in  a losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I turn  to  go : my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and 
farms ; 

They  mix  in  one  another’s  arms 

To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 

cm. 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went 

From  out  the  doors  where  l wai 
bred, 

I dream’d  a vision  of  the  dead. 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content. 


514 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Methought  I dwelt  within  a hall, 

And  maidens  with  me : distant 
hills 

From  hidden  summits  fed  with 
rills 

A river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 

They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and 
good 

And  graceful.  In  the  centre 
stood 

A statue  veil’d,  to  which  they  sang ; 

And  which,  tho’  veil’d,  was  known  to 
me, 

The  shape  of  him  I loved,  and 
love 

For  ever : then  flew  in  a dove 

And  brought  a summons  from  the 
sea : 

And  When  they  learnt  that  I must  go 

They  wept  and  wail’d,  but  led  the 
way 

To  where  a little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood  below ; 

And  on  by  many  a level  mead. 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made 
the  banks, 

We  glided  winding  under  ranks 

Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore 

And  roll’d  the  floods  in  grander 
space, 

The  maidens  gather’d  strength 
and  grace 

And  presence,  lordlier  than  before  ; 

And  I myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch’d  them,  wax’d  in  every 
limb ; 

I felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 

The  pulses  of  a Titan’s  heart ; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war, 

And  one  would  chant  the  history 

Of  that  great  race,  which  is  to 
be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a star ; 


Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 
Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we 
saw 

A great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck, 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.  Up  the  side  I went, 
And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck : 

Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail’d  their  lot ; I did  them 
wrong : 

“We  served  thee  here,”  they  said, 
“ so  long, 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  ? ” 

So  rapt  I was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  “ Enter  likewise  ye 
And  go  with  us : ” they  enter’d  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud, 
We  steer’d  her  toward  a crimson 
cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep, 
civ. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of 
Christ; 

The  moon  is  hid.  the  night  is  still ; 
A single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A single  peal  of  bells  below, 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A single  murmur  in  the  breast, 
That  these  are  not  the  bells  I know. 

Like  strangers’  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a memory 
strays, 

Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other 
days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow’d  ground, 
cv. 

To-night  ungather’d  let  us  leave 

This  laurel,  let  this  holly  stand : 
We  live  within  the  stranger’s  land, 
And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eve. 


IN  MEM  OR  I AM. 


515 


hir  father’s  dust  is  left  alone 

And  silent  under  other  snows  : 

There  in  due  time  the  woodbine 
blows, 

Fhe  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

<?o  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 

The  genial  hour  with  mask  and 
mime ; 

For  change  of  place,  like  growth 
of  time, 

5as  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 

By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly 
proved, 

A little  spare  the  night  I loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 

Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm ; 

For  who  would  keep  an  ancient 
form 

Thro’  which  the  spirit  breathes  no 
more  1 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast ; 

Nor  harp  be  touch’d,  nor  flute  be 
blown ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 

What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the 
seed ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and 
lead 

The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good, 
cvi. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the 
snow : 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 


Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no 
more ; 

Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and 
poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the 
times ; 

Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful 
rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and 
blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
j Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

j Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 
j Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of 
gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier 
hand ; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

evil. 

It  is  the  day  when  he  was  born, 

A bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a purple-frosty  bank 
Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.  Fiercely 
flies 

The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and 
ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen’d  eaves. 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 


516 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Above  the  wood  which  grides  and 
clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 
That  breaks  the  coast.  But  fetch 
the  wine, 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass ; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie, 
To  make  a solid  core  of  heat ; 

Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 
Of  all  things  ev’n  as  he  were  by  ; 

We  keep  the  day.  With  festal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him,  whate’er  he  be, 
And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 

CVIII. 

I will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 
And,  lest  I stiffen  into  stone, 

I will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Nor  feed  with  sighs  a passing  wind : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho’  with 
might 

To  scale  the  heaven’s  highest 
height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 

What  find  I in  the  highest  place, 

But  mine  own  phantom  chanting 
hymns  1 

And  on  the  depths  of  death  there 
swims 

The  reflex  of  a human  face. 

I’ll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
’Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us 
wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee, 
cix. 

Heart  affluence  in  discursive  talk 

From  household  fountains  never 
dry; 

The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 
That  saw  thro’  all  the  Muses’  walk ; 


Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of 
man ; 

Impassion’d  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
But  touch’d  with  no  ascetic 
gloom ; 

And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 
Thro’  all  the  years  of  April  blood; 

A love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 

Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England ; not  the  schoolboy 
heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Gelt ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a sort,  the  child  would 
twine 

A trustful  hand,  unask’d-,  in  thine, 
And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine 
eyes 

Have  look’d  on:  if  they  look’d 
in  vain, 

My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 
Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

cx. 

Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years  : 
The  feeble  soul,  a haunt  of  fears, 
Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 

The  proud  was  half  disarm’d  ol 
pride, 

Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 
To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thouwert  by, 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen 
fool 

Was  soften’d,  and  he  knew  not  why; 

While  I,  thy  nearest,  sat  apart, 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


517 


And  loved  them  more,  that  they 
were  thine, 

rhe  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Nor  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not 
tire, 

And,  born  of  love,  the  vague 
desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 

CXI. 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 

Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro’  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a golden  ball, 
By  blood  a king,  at  heart  a clown  ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe’er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion’s 
sake, 

Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 
At  seasons  thro’  the  gilded  pale  : 

For  who  can  always  act  ? but  he, 

To  whom  a thousand  memories 
call, 

Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 
The  gentleness  he  seem’d  to  be. 

Best  seem’d  the  thing  he  was,  and 
join’d 

Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 
And  native  growth  of  noble  mind ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 

Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 

Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 
Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light; 

t(  And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 
And  soil’d  with  all  ignoble  use. 

jT'  cxn. 

High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 
That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate 
i eyes 

On  glorious  insufficiencies, 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 


But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I seem  to  cast  a careless  eye 
On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou?  some  novel 
power 

Sprang  up  for  ever  at  a touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too 
much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  brought, 

And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest 
made, 

And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway’d 
In  vassal  tides  that  follow’d  thought. 

cxm. 

’Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 
Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps 
with  thee 

Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 
But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise ; 

For  can  I doubt,  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil  — 

I doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have 
been  : 

A life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force. 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has 
birth, 

A lever  to  uplift  the  earth 
And  roll  it  in  another  course, 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and 

go, 

With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  and  with 
cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 

cxiv. 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ? Whc 
shall  rail 


51$ 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Against  her  beauty  ? May  she 
mix 

With  men  and  prosper!  Who 
shall  fix 

Her  pillars  ? Let  her  work  prevail 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a fire : 

She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance. 
Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a child,  and  vain  — 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and 
faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons  ? fiery-hot  to  burst 

All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.  Let  her  know  her 
place ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain ; and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 
With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 

But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul 
O,  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 
So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and 
hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

cxv. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of 
quick 

About  the  flowering  squares,  and 
thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 
The  lark  becomes  a sightless  song. 


Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the 
vale, 

And  milkier  every  milky  sail 
On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change 
their  sky 

To  build  and  brood ; that  live  their 
lives 

From  land  to  land  ; and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too ; and  my  re- 
gret 

Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

CXVI. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 

That  keenlier  in  sweet  April 
wakes, 

And  meets  the  year,  and  gives 
and  takes 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all : the  songs,  the  stirring  aiij, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust, 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten 
trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret : the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I muse  alone ; 
And  that  dear  voice,  I once  have 
known, 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune 
dead ; 

Less  yearning  for  the  friendship 
fled, 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 
cxvii. 

O days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place. 
A little  while  from  his  embrace. 
For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss : 


IN  MEMO RI AM 


519 


That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 

Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 
Delight  a hundredfold  accrue, 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs, 
And  every  span  of  shade  that 
steals, 

And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels. 
And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 

I 

CXVIII. 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and 
truth, 

As  dying  Nature’s  earth  and  lime ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.  They  say, 
The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random 
forms, 

The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic 
storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branch’d  from  clime 
to  clime, 

The  herald  of  a higher  race, 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 

Jf  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more ; 
Or,  crown’d  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course, 
and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning 
fears, 

And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 
/ And  batter’d  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.  Arise  and  fly 

The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual 
f ea^t ; 


Move  upward,  working  out  the 

beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

CXIX. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to 

beat 

So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I come  once  more;  the  city  sleeps; 
1 smell  the  meadow  in  the  street ; 

I hear  a chirp  of  birds ; I see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long* 
withdrawn 

A light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 
And  think  of  early  days  and  thee. 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland, 
And  bright  the  friendship  of 
thine  eye ; 

And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce 
a sigh 

I take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 


cxx. 

I trust  I have  not  wasted  breath : 

I think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries ; not  in  vain, 
Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I fought  with 
Death ; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay : 

Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and 
then 

What  matters  Science  unto  men, 
At  least  to  me  ? I would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood 
shape 

His  action  like  the  greater  ape, 
But  I was  born  to  other  things. 

CXXI. 

Sad  Hesper  o’er  the  buried  sun 

And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  hina. 
Thou  watchest  all  things  eve! 
dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a glory  done  ' 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


520 


The  team  is  loosen’d  from  the  wain, 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door. 
And  life  is  darken’d  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 
By  thee  the  world’s  great  work  is 
heard 

Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird ; 
Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light: 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream, 

And  voices  hail  it  from  the 
brink ; 

Thou  hear’st  the  village  hammer 
clink, 

And  see’st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
Por  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my 
past, 

Thy  place  is  changed ; thou  art  the 
same. 

CXXII. 

Oh,  wast  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
While  I rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And  yearn’d  to  burst  the  folded 
gloom, 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 

The  strong  imagination  roll 
A sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 
In  all  her  motion  one  with  law  ; 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now, 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 
Till  all  my  blood,  a fuller  wave, 

Be  quicken’d  with  a livelier  breath, 
And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death ; 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a bow, 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply 
glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a rose. 


cxxm. 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the 
tree. 

0 earth,  what  changes  hast  thou 
seen ! 

There  where  the  long  street  roars, 
hath  been 

The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing 
stand3 ; 

They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves 
and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold 
it  true ; 

Fortho’  my  lips  maybreatheadieu, 

I cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

CXXIV. 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless  ; 

Our  dearest  faith ; our  ghastliest 
doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  All ; within,  with- 
out ; 

The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we 
guess ; 

I found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 

Or  eagle’s  wing,  or  insect’s  eye ; 

Nor  thro’  the  questions  men  may 
try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun : 

If  e’er  when  faith  had  fall’n  asleep, 

1 heard  a voice  “ believe  no  more  ” 

And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep ; 

A warmth  within  the  breast  would 
melt 

The  freezing  reason’s  colder  part, 

And  like  a man  in  wrath  the 
heart 

Stood  up  and  answer’d  “ I have  felt.” 

No,  like  a child  in  doubt  and  fear : 

But  that  blind  clamor  made  me 
wise ; f 


IN  MEMORIAM . 


521 


Then  was  I as  a child  that  cries,  I 
*ut,  crying,  knows  his  father  near ; 

Ind  what  I am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the 
hands 

That  reach  thro’  nature,  moulding 
men. 

cxxv. 

Whatever  I have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would 
give, 

Yea,  tho’  there  often  seem'd  to 
live 

\ contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

fet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth ; 
She  did  but  look  through  dimmer 
eyes ; 

Or  Love  but  play’d  with  gracious 
lies, 

Because  he  felt  so  fix’d  in  truth : 

Amd  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 

He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song ; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and 
strong 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there ; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 
A thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail 

cxxvi. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 
Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho’  as  yet  I keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and 
sleep 

Encompass’d  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a sentinel 
I Who  moves  about  from  place  to 
place, 


And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of 
space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well, 
cxxvn. 

And  all  is  well,  the’  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder’d  in  the  night  of  fear ; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that 
hear 

A deeper  voice  across  the  storm. 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev’n  tho’  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 
Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags  : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining 
crags ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood ; 

The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the 
sky, 

And  the  great  iEon  sinks  in  blood, 

And  compass’d  by  the  fires  of  Hell ; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy 
star, 

O’erlook’st  the  tumult  from  afar, 
And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 

cxxvm. 

The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  he  met  with 
Death, 

Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 
That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 

Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 
And  throned  races  may  degrade ; 
Yet  O ye  mysteries  of  good, 

Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and 
Fear, 

If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like 
new ; 

| If  this  were  all  your  mission  here. 


522 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


To  draw,  to  sheathe  a useless  sword, 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious 
lies, 

To  cleave  a creed  in  sects  and 
• cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a word, 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk, 
,To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 
And  tuft  with  grass  a feudal  tower; 

Whythen  myscorn  mightwell  descend 
On  you  and  yours.  I see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 
Is  toil  codperant  to  an  end. 

cxxix. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 

So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal ; 

0 loved  the  most,  when  most  I feel 
There-  is  a lower  and  a higher ; 

Known  and  unknown  ; human,  divine ; 
Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and 
eye; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst 
not  die, 

Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine ; 

Strange  friend,  past, present,  and  to  be; 
Loved  deeplier,  darklier  under- 
stood ; 

Behold,  I dream  a dream  of  good, 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

cxxx. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 

1 hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ? I cannot  guess  ; 
But  tho’  I seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 
I do  not  therefore  love  thee  less  : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now ; 
Tho’  mix’d  with  God  and  Nature 
thou, 

t seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 


Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I have  thee  still,  and  I rejoice ; 

I prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice, 
I shall  not  lose  thee  tho’  I die. 

CXXXI. 

O living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer 
shock, 

Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro’  our  deeds  and  make  them 
pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 

A cry  above  the  conquer’d  years 
To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control 
The  truths  that  never  can  be 
proved 

Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved 
And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


O true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 
Demand  not  thou  a marriage  lay  ; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 

Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I felt  so  much  of  bliss 

Since  first  he  told  me  that  he 
loved 

A daughter  of  our  house;  nor 
proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a day  like  this ; 

Tho’  I since  then  have  number’d  o’er 
Some  thrice  three  years:  they  went 
and  came, 

Remade  the  blood  and  changed 
the  fame, 

And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more  ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 

In  dying  songs  a dead  regret, 

But  like  a statue  solid-set, 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  art 
flown. 


W MEMORIAM. 


523 


For  I myself  with  these  have 
grown 

To  something  greater  than  before ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I 
made 

As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 

As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 

That  must  be  made  a wife  ere 
noon  ? 

She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

3f  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower: 

3n  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes 

And  then  on  thee ; they  meet  thy 
look 

And  brighten  like  the  star  that 
shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

0 when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 

For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she 
grows 

For  ever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy  ; full  of  power ; 

As  gentle;  liberal-minded,  great. 

Consistent ; wearing  all  that 
weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a flower. 

But  now  set  out : the  noon  is  near, 

And  I must  give  away  the  bride ; 

She  fears  not,  or  with  thee 
beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear. 

1 For  I that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 

That  watch’d  her  on  her  nurse’s 
arm, 

That  shielded  all  her  life  from 
harm 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a wife, 

Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead ; 

Their  pensive  tablets  round  her 
head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 


Breathed  in  her  ear.  The  ring  is  on, 
The  “wilt  thou”  answer’d,  and 
again 

The  “ wilt  thou  ” ask’d,  till  out  of 
twain 

Her  sweet  “ I will  ” has  made  you  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be 
read, 

Mute  symbols  of  a joyful  morn,  \ 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn ; 

The  names  are  sign’d,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering 
breeze ; 

The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the 
trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 

Await  them.  Many  a merry  face 
Salutes  them  — maidens  of  the 
place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers, 

O happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I 
gave. 

They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass 
the  grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 

For  them  the  light  of  life  in- 
creased, 

Who  stay  to  share  the  morning 
feast, 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 

To  meet  and  greet  a whiter  sun ; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not 
shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 

And  hearts  are  warm’d  and  faces 
bloom, 

As  drinking  health  to  bride  and 
groom 

We  wisli  them  store  of  happy  davs. 


524 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a stiller  guest. 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the 
rest, 

And,  tho’  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on, 
And  those  white-favor’d  horses 
wait ; 

They  rise,  but  linger ; it  is  late  ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 

From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew, 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look’d,  and  what  he 
said, 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 
The  shade  of  passing  thought, 
the  wealth 

Of  words  and  wit,  the  doable 
health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-tiines- 
three, 

And  last  the  dance ; — till  I retire : 
Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake 
so  loud, 

And  high  in  heaven  the  stream- 
ing cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a rising  fire : 

And  rise,  O moon,  from  yonder  down, 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  edancing 
rills. 


And  catch  at  every  mountain 

head, 

And  o’er  the  friths  that  branch 
and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro’  the  hills ; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the 
wall ; 

And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 
To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A soul  shall  draw  from  out  the 
vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds. 

And,  moved  thro’  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a closer  link 
Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge ; under  whose  com- 
mand 

Is  Earth  and  Earth’s,  and  in  their 
hand 

Is  Nature  like  an  open  book; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and 
did, 

And  hoped,  and  suffer’d,  is  but 
seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 
That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


he  original  Preface  to  “ The  Lover’s  Tale”  states  that  it  was  composed  in  my  nineteenth 
. nr.  Two  only  of  the  three  parts  then  written  were  printed,  when,  feeling  the  imperfection 
the  poem,  I withdrew  it  from  the  press.  One  of  my  friends  however  who,  boylike,  admired 
le  boy’s  work,  distributed  among  our  common  associates  of  that  hour  some  copies  of 
tese  two  parts,  without  my  knowledge,  without  the  omissions  and  amendments  which 
had  in  contemplation,  and  marred  by  the  many  misprints  of  the  compositor.  Seeing  that 
tese  two  parts  have  of  late  been  mercilessly  pirated,  and  that  what  1 had  deemed  scarce 
orthy  to  live  is  not  allowed  to  die,  may  I not  be  pardoned  if  1 suffer  the  whole  poem  at  last 
come  into  the  light  — accompanied  with  a reprint  of  the  sequel  — a work  of  my  mature  life 
“ The  Golden  Supper  ”? 

May , 1879. 

ARGUMENT. 


jlian,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his  friend  and  rival, 
ionel,  endeavors  to  narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for  her,  and  the  strange  sequel.  He 
teaks  (in  Parts  II.  and  III.)  of  having  been  haunted  by  visions  and  the  sound  of  bells,  tolling 
r a funeral,  and  at  last  ringing  for  a marriage;  but  he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  ap- 
•oaches  the  Event,  and  a witness  to  it  completes  the  tale. 


I. 

ere  far  away,  seen  from  the  top- 
most cliff, 

illing  with  purple  gloom  the  vacan- 
cies 

etween  the  tufted  hills,  the  sloping 

11  seas 

ung  in  mid-heaven,  and  half-way 
down  rare  sails, 

rhite  as  white  clouds,  floated  from 
sky  to  sky. 

h ! pleasant  breast  of  waters,  quiet 

i bay, 

ike  to  a quiet  mind  in  the  loud 
world, 

rhere  the  chafed  breakers  of  the 
outer  sea 

ink  powerless,  as  anger  falls  aside 

nd  withers  on  the  breast  of  peaceful 
love  ; 

I lou  didst  receive  the  growth  of  pines 
that  fledged 

1 le  hills  that  watch’d  thee,  as  Love 
watcheth  Love, 

thine  own  essence,  and  delight  thy- 
self 


To  make  it  wholly  thine  on  sunny 
days. 

Keep  thou  thy  name  of  “ Lover’s 
Bay.”  See,  sirs, 

Even  now  the  Goddess  of  the  Past, 
that  takes 

The  heart,  and  sometimes  touches  hut 
one  string 

That  quivers,  and  is  silent,  and  some- 
times 

Sweeps  suddenly  all  its  half-moulder’d 
chords 

To  some  old  melody,  begins  to  play 

That  air  which  pleased  her  first.  I 
feel  thy  breath ; 

I come,  great  Mistress  of  the  ear  and 
eye  : 

Thy  breath  is  of  the  pinewood  ; and 
tho’  years 

Have  hollow’d  out  a deep  and  stormy 
strait 

Betwixt  the  native  land  of  Love  and 
me, 

Breathe  but  a little  on  me,  and  the 
sail 

Will  draw  me  to  the  rising  of  the 
sun, 


526 


THE  LOVER’S  TALE . 


The  lucid  chambers  of  the  morning 

star, 

And  East  of  Life. 

Permit  me,  friend,  I prythee, 

To  pass  my  hand  across  my  brows, 
and  muse 

On  those  dear  hills,  that  never  more 
will  meet 

The  sight  that  throbs  and  aches  be- 
neath my  touch, 

As  tho’  there  beat  a heart  in  either 
eye ; 

For  when  the  outers  lights  are  darken’d 

thus, 

The  memory’s  vision  hath  a keener 
edge. 

It  grows  upon  me  now  — the  semi- 
circle 

Of  dark-blue  waters  and  the  narrow 
fringe 

Of  curving  beach  — its  wreaths  of 
dripping  green  — 

Its  pale  pink  shells  — the  summer- 
house aloft 

That  open’d  on  the  pines  with  doors 
of  glass, 

A mountain  nest  — the  pleasure-boat 
that  rock’d, 

Light-green  with  its  own  shadow,  keel 
to  keel, 

Upon  the  dappled  dimplings  of  the 
wave, 

That  blanch’d  upon  its  side. 

O Love,  0 Hope  ! 

They  come,  they  crowd  upon  me  all 
at  once  — 

Moved  from  the  cloud  of  unforgotten 
things, 

That  sometimes  on  the  horizon  of  the 
mind 

Lies  folded,  often  sweeps  athwart  in 
storm  — 

Flash  upon  flash  they  lighten  thro’  me 
— days 

Of  dewy  dawning  and  the  amber, 
eves 

When  thou  and  I,  Camilla,  thou  and 

I 

Were  borne  abomt  the  bay  or  safely 
moor’d 


Beneath  a low-brow’d  cavern,  where 
the  tide 

Plash’d,  sapping  its  worn  ribs ; and  ai 
without 

The  slowly-ridging  rollers  on  the 
cliffs 

Clash’d,  calling  to  each  other,  and 
thro’  the  arch 

Down  those  loud  waters,  like  a setting 
star, 

Mixt  with  the  gorgeous  west  the  light 
house  shone, 

And  silver-smiling  Venus  ere  she  fel 
Would  often  loiter  in  her  balmj 
blue, 

To  crown  it  with  herself. 

Here,  too,  my  lov 
Waver’d  at  anchor  with  me,  when  da; 
hung 

From  his  mid-dome  in  Heaven’s  air 
halls ; 

Gleams  of  the  water-circles  as  the, 
broke, 

Flicker’d  like  doubtful  smiles  aboc 
her  lips,  , 

Quiver’d  a flying  glory  on  her  hair, 
Leapt  like  a passing  thought  acroe 
her  eyes  ; 

And  mine  with  one  that  will  not  pas 
till  earth 

And  heaven  pass  too,  dwelt  on  m 
heaven,  a face 

Most  starry-fair,  but  kindled  froi 
within 

As  ’twere  with  dawn.  She  was  darl 
hair’d,  dark-eyed : 

Oh,  such  dark  eyes  ! a single  giant 
of  them 

Will  govern  a whole  life  from  biri 
to  death, 

Careless  of  all  things  else,  led  < 
with  light 

In  trances  and  in  visions  : look 
them, 

You  lose  yourself  in  utter  ignoranc 
You  cannot  find  their  depth ; for  tin 
go  back, 

And  farther  back,  and  still  withdn 
themselves 

Quite  into  the  deep  soul,  that  ev« 

, more 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


Vesli  springing  from  her  fountains  in 
the  brain, 

till  pouring  thro’,  floods  with  redun- 
dant life 

ler  narrow  portals. 

Trust  me,  long  ago 
should  have  died,  if  it  were  possible 
'o  die  in  gazing  on  that  perfectness 
V^hich  I do  bear  within  me:  I had 
died, 

lut  from  my  farthest  lapse,  my  latest 
ebb, 

'hine  image,  like  a charm  of  light 
and  strength 

fpon  the  waters,  push'd  me  back 
again 

>n  these  deserted  sands  of  barren 
life. 

’ho’  from  the  deep  vault  where  the 
heart  of  Hope 

ell  into  dust,  and  crumbled  in  the 
dark  — 

orgetting  how  to  render  beautiful 
[er  countenance  with  quick  and 
healthful  blood  — 
hou  didst  not  sway  me  upward; 

( could  I perish 
fhile  thou,  a meteor  of  the  sepul- 
i chre, 

>idst  swathe  thyself  all  round  Hope’s 
I quiet  urn 

or  ever?  He,  that  saith  it,  hath 

0 o’er-stept 

he  slippery  footing  of  his  narrow 
wit, 

nd  fall’n  away  from  judgment. 
lD.  Thou  art  light, 

o which  my  spirit  leaneth  all  her 
flowers, 

nd  length  of  days,  and  immortality 
f thought,  and  freshness  ever  self- 
renew’d 

or  Time  and  Grief  abode  too  long 
with  Life, 

1 nd,  like  all  other  friends  i’  the  world, 

Lj  at  last 

hey  grew  aweary  of  her  fellowship  : 
L>  Time  and  Grief  did  beckon  unto 
Death, 

j nd  Death  drew  nigh  and  beat  the 
! doors  of  Life ; 


But  thou  didst  sit  alone  in  the  inner 
house, 

A wakeful  portress,  and  didst  parie 
with  Death,  — 

“ This  is  a charmed  dwelling  which  I 
, old ; ” 

So  Death  gave  back,  and  would  no 
further  come. 

Yet  is  my  life  nor  in  the  present  time, 

Nor  in  the  present  place.  To  me 
alone, 

Push’d  from  his  chair  of  regal  heri- 
tage, 

The  Present  is  the  vassal  of  the  Past: 

So  that,  in  that  I have  lived,  do  I live, 

And  cannot  die,  and  am,  in  having 
been  — 

A portion  of  the  pleasant  yesterday, 

Thrust  forward  on  to-day  and  out  of 
place ; 

A body  journeying  onward,  sick  with 
toil, 

The  weight  as  if  of  age  upon  my 
limbs, 

The  grasp  of  hopeless  grief  about  my 
heart, 

And  all  the  senses  weaken’d,  save  in 
that, 

Which  long  ago  they  had  glean’d  and 
garner’d  up 

Into  the  granaries  of  memory  — 

The  clear  brow,  bulwark  of  the 
precious  brain, 

Chink’d  as  you  see,  and  seam’d  — and 
all  the  while 

The  light  soul  twines  and  mingles 
with  the  growths 

Of  vigorous  early  days,  attracted, 
won, 

Married,  made  one  with,  molten  into 
all 

The  beautiful  in  Past  of  act  or  place, 

And  like  the  all-enduring  earned 
driven 

i'ar  from  the  diamond  fountain  by  the 
palms, 

Who  toils  across  the  middle  moonlit 
nights, 

Or  when  the  white  heats  of  the  blind- 
ing noons 

Beat  from  the  concave  sand ; yet  is 
him  keeps 


528 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


A draught  of  that  sweet  fountain  that 
he  loves, 

To  stay  his  feet,  from  falling,  and  his 
spirit 

From  bitterness  of  death. 

Ye  ask  me,  friends, 

When  I began  to  love.  How  should 
I tell  you  ? 

Or  from  the  after-fulness  of  my  heart, 

Flow  back  again  unto  my  slender 
spring 

And  first  of  love,  tho’  every  turn  and 
depth 

Between  is  clearer  in  my  life  than  all 

Its  present  flow.  Ye  know  not  what 
ye  ask. 

How  should  the  broad  and  open  flower 
tell 

What  sort  of  bud  it  was,  when,  prest 
together 

In  its  green  sheath,  close-lapt  in  silken 
folds, 

It  seem’d  to  keep  its  sweetness  to  it- 
self, 

Yet  was  not  the  less  sweet  for  that  it 
seem’d  ? 

For  young  Life  knows  not  when  young 
Life  was  born. 

But  takes  it  all  for  granted : neither 
Love, 

Warm  in  the  heart,  his  cradle,  can 
remember 

Love  in  the  womb,  but  resteth  satis- 
fied, 

Looking  on  her  that  brought  him  to 
the  light : 

Or  as  men  know  not  when  they  fall 
asleep 

Into  delicious  dreams,  our  other  life, 

So  know  1 not  when  I began  to  love. 

This  is  my  sum  of  knowledge  — that 
my  love 

Grew  with  myself  — say  rather,  was 
my  growth, 

My  inward  sap,  the  hold  I have  on 
earth, 

My  outward  circling  air  wherewith  I 
breathe, 

Which  yet  upholds  my  life,  and  ever- 
more 

Is  to  me  daily  life  and  daily  death ; !! 


For  how  should  I have  lived  and  not 
have  loved  ? 

Can  ye  take  off  the  sweetness  from 
the  flower, 

The  color  and  the  sweetness  from  the 
rose, 

And  place  them  by  themselves;  or  set 
apart 

Their  motions  and  their  brightness 
from  the  stars, 

And  then  point  out  the  flower  or  the 
star  \ 

Orbuild  a wall  betwixt  my  life  and  love, 
And  tell  me  where  I am  1 ’Tis  even 
thus : ' 

In  that  I live  I love  ; because  I love 
I live : whate’er  is  fountain  to  the  one 
Is  fountain  to  the  other ; and  whene’er 
Our  God  unknits  the  riddle  of  the 
one, 

There  is  no  shade  or  fold  of  mystery 
Swathing  the  other. 

Many,  many  years. 
(For  they  seem  many  and  my  most  ol 
life, 

And  well  I could  have  linger’d  in  that 
porch, 

So  unproportion’d  to  the  dwelling- 
place,) 

In  the  Maydews  of  childhood,  opposite 
The  flush  and  dawn  of  youth,  we  livet 
together, 

Apart,  alone  together  en  those  hills. 

Before  he  saw  my  day  my  fatlie- 
died, 

And  he  was  happy  that  he  saw  it  not 
But  I and  the  first  daisy  on  his  grav< 
From  the -same  clay  came  into  ligh 
at  once. 

As  Love  and  I do  number  equal  years 
So  she,  my  love,  is  of  an  age  with  me 
How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  o 
each ! 

On  the  same  morning,  almost  the  sam 
hour, 

Under  the  selfsame  aspect  of  the  stars 
(Oh  falsehood  of  all  starcraft!)  w 
were  born. 

How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  o 
each  ! 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


529 


Hie  sister  of  my  mother  — she  that 
bore 

Camilla  close  beneath  her  beating 
heart, 

Which  to  the  imprison’d  spirit  of  the 
child, 

Vith  its  true-touched  pulses  in  the 
flow 

\.nd  hourly  visitation  of  the  blood, 
>ent  notes  of  preparation  manifold, 
^nd  mellow’d  echoes  of  the  outer 
world  — 

ly  mother’s  sister,  mother  of  my 
love, 

Vho  had  a twofold  claim  upon  my 
heart, 

>ne  twofold  mightier  than  the  other 
was, 

n giving  so  much  beauty  to  the 
world, 

ind  so  much  wealth  as  God  had 
charged  her  with  — 
loathing  to  put  it  from  herself  for 
ever, 

ief t her  own  life  with  it ; and  dying 
thus, 

down’d  with  her  highest  act  the 
placid  face 

md  breathless  body  of  her  good  deeds 
past. 

So  were  we  born,  so  orphan’d.  She 
was  motherless 

nd  I without  a father.  So  from 
each 

f those  two  pillars  which  from  earth 
uphold 

ur  childhood,  one  had  fallen  away, 
and  all 

he  careful  burthen  of  our  tender 
years 

rembled  upon  the  other.  He  that 
gave 

er  life,  to  me  delightedly  fulfill’d 
11  lovingkindnesses,  all  offices 
f watchful  care  and  trembling  ten- 
derness. 

e waked  for  both : he  pray’d  for 
both  : he  slept 

reaming  of  both  : nor  was  his  love 
the  less 

scause  it  was  divided,  and  shot  forth 


Boughs  on  each  side,  laden  with  whole- 
some  shade, 

Wherein  we  nested  sleeping  or  awake, 

And  sang  aloud  the  matin-song  of 
life. 

She  was  my  foster-sister:  on  one  arm 

The  flaxen  ringlets  of  our  infancies 

Wander’d,  the  while  we  rested:  one 
soft  lap 

Pillow’d  us  both : a common  light  of 
eyes 

Was  on  us  as  we  lay:  our  baby  lips, 

Kissing  one  bosom,  ever  drew  from 
thence 

The  stream  of  life,  one  stream,  one 
life,  one  blood, 

One  sustenance,  which,  still  as  thought 
grew  large, 

Still  larger  moulding  all  the  house  of 
thought, 

Made  all  our  tastes  and  fancies  like, 
perhaps  — 

All  — all  but  one ; and  strange  to  me, 
and  sweet, 

Sweet  thro’  strange  years  to  know 
that  whatsoe’er 

Our  general  mother  meant  for  me 
alone, 

Our  mutual  mother  dealt  to  both  of 
us : 

So  what  was  earliest  mine  in  earliest 
life, 

I shared  with  her  in  whom  myself 
remains. 

As  was  our  childhood,  so  our  in- 
fancy, 

They  tell  me,  was  a very  miracle 

Of  fellow-feeling  and  communion. 

They  tell  me  that  we  would  not  be 
alone,  — 

We  cried  when  we  were  parted ; when 
I wept, 

Her  smile  lit  up  the  rainbow  on  my 
tears, 

Stay’d  on  the  cloud  of  sorrow;  that 
we  loved 

The  sound  of  one-another’s  voices 
more 

Than  the  gray  cuckoo  loves  his  name, 
and  learn’d 

To  lisp  in  tune  together ; that  we  slept 


530 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


In  the  same  cradle  always, face  to  face. 

Heart  beating  time  to  heart,  lip  press- 
ing lip, 

Folding  each  other,  breathing  on  each 
other, 

Dreaming  together  (dreaming  of  each 
other 

They  should  have  added),  till  the 
morning  light 

Sloped  thro’  the  pines,  upon  the  dewy 
pane 

Falling,  unseal’d  our  eyelids,  and  we 
woke 

To  gaze  upon  each  other.  If  this  be 
true, 

At  thought  of  which  my  whole  soul 
languishes 

And  faints,  and  hath  no  pulse,  no 
breath  — as  tho’ 

A man  in  some  still  garden  should  in- 
fuse 

Rich  atar  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose, 

Till,  drunk  with  its  own  wine,  and 
overfull 

Of  sweetness,  and  in  smelling  of  itself, 

It  fall  on  its  own  thorns  — if  this  be 
true  — 

And  that  way  my  wish  leads  me  ever- 
more 

Still  to  believe  it  — Tis  so  sweet  a 
thought, 

Why  in  the  utter  stillness  of  the 
soul 

Doth  question’d  memory  answer  not, 
nor  tell 

Of  this  our  earliest,  our  closest-drawn, 

Most  loveliest,  earthly-heavenliest  har- 
mony 1 

O blossom’d  portal  of  the  lonely 
house, 

Green  prelude,  April  promise,  glad 
new  year 

Of  Being,  which  with  earliest  violets 

And  lavish  carol  of  clear-throatedlarks 

Fill’d  all  the  March  of  life ! — I will 
not  speak  of  thee. 

These  have  not  seen  thee,  these  can 
never  know  thee, 

They  cannot  understand  me.  Pass 
we  then 

A term  of  eighteen  years.  Ye  would 
but  laugh, 


If  I should  tell  you  how  I hoard  in 
thought 

The  faded  rhymes  and  scraps  of  an* 
cient  crones, 

Gray  relics  of  the  nurseries  of  the 
world, 

Which  are  as  gems  set  in  my  memory, 
Because  she  learnt  them  with  me ; or 
what  use 

To  know  her  father  left  us  just  before 
The  daffodil  was  blown  ? or  how  we 
found 

The  dead  man  cast  upon  the  shore  ? 
All  this 

Seems  to  the  quiet  daylight  of  your 
minds 

But  cloud  and  smoke,  and  in  the  dark 
of  mine 

Is  traced  with  flame.  Move  with  me 
to  the  event. 

There  came  a glorious  morning, 
such  a one 

As  dawns  but  once  a season.  Mercury 
On  such  a morning  would  have  flung 
himself  > i 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  and  swum  with 
balanced  wings 

To  some  tall  mountain : when  I said 
to  her, 

“A  day  for  Gods  to  stoop,”  she  an- 
swered. “Ay, 

And  men  to  soar : ” for  as  that  other 
gazed, 

Shading  his  eyes  till  all  the  fiery  cloud 
The  prophet  and  the  chariot  and  the 
steeds, 

Suck’d  into  oneness  like  a little  star 
Were  drunk  into  the  inmost  blue,  w( 
stood,  * 

When  first  we  came  from  out  th< 
pines  at  noon, 

With  hands  for  eaves,  uplooking  ant 
almost 

Waiting  to  see  some  blessed  snape  ii 
heaven, 

So  bathed  we  were  in  brilliance 
Never  yet 

Before  or  after  have  I known  th 
spring 

Pour  with  such  sudden  deluges  o 
light 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


53} 


nto  the  middle  summer ; for  that  day 
jove,  rising,  shook  his  wings,  and 
charged  the  winds 

Yith  spiced  May-sweets  from  bound 
to  bound,  and  blew 
<Tesh  fire  into  the  sun,  and  from 
within 

Surst  thro’  the  heated  buds,  and  sent 
his  soul 

nto  the  songs  of  birds,  and  touch’d 
far-off 

lis  mountain-altars,  his  high  hills, 
with  flame 
Wilder  and  purer. 

Thro’  the  rocks  we  wound : 
The  great  pine  shook  with  lonely 
sounds  of  joy 

That  came  on  the  sea-wind.  As 
mountain  streams 

)ur  blood  ran  free : the  sunshine 
seem’d  to  brood 

Vfore  warmly  on  the  heart  than  on 
the  brow. 

'We  often  paused,  and,  looking  back, 
we  saw 

I Hie  clefts  and  openings  in  the  moun- 
tains fill’d 

With  the  blue  valley  and  the  glisten- 
ing brooks, 

And  all  the  low  dark  groves,  a land 
of  love ! 

A.  land  of  promise,  a land  of  memory, 
A.  land  of  promise  flowing  with  the 
j milk 

And  honey  of  delicious  memories! 
Amd  down  to  sea,  and  far  as  eye  could 
ken, 

.^Each  way  from  verge  to  verge  a Holy 
Land, 

Still  growing  holier  as  you  near’d  the 
bay, 

I For  there  the  Temple  stood. 

When  we  had  reach’d 
The  grassy  platform  on  some  hill,  I 
stoop’d, 

- [ gather’d  the  wild  herbs,  and  for  her 

brows 

- ,\nd  mine  made  garlands  of  the  self- 

same flower, 

) Which  she  took  smiling,  and  with  my 
work  thus 


Crown’d  her  clear  forehead.  Once  or 
twice  she  told  me 

(For  I remember  all  things)  to  let  grow 

The  flowers  that  run  poison  in  their 
veins. 

She  said,  “The  evil  flourish  in  the 
world.” 

Then  playfully  she  gave  herself  the 
lie  — 

“Nothing  in  nature  is  unbeautiful; 

So,  brother,  pluck  and  spare  not.’* 
So  I wove 

Ev’n  the  dull-blooded  poppy-stem, 
“ whose  flower, 

Hued  with  the  scarlet  of  a fierce  sun 
rise, 

Like  to  the  wild  youth  of  an  evil  prince. 

Is  without  sweetness,  but  who  crowns 
himself 

Above  the  naked  poisons  of  his  heart 

In  his  old  age.”  A graceful  thought 
of  hers 

Grav’n  on  my  fancy ! And  oh,  how 
like  a nymph, 

A stately  mountain  nymph  she  look’d! 
how  native 

Unto  the  hills  she  trod  on ! While  I 
gazed 

My  coronal  slowly  disentwined  itself 

And  fell  between  us  both  ; tho’  while 
I gazed 

My  spirit  leap’d  as  with  those  thrills 
of  bliss 

That  strike  across  the  soul  in  prayer, 
and  show  us 

That  we  are  surely  heard.  Methought 
a light 

Burst  from  the  garland  I had  wov’n, 
and  stood 

A solid  glory  on  her  bright  black  hair ; 

A light  methought  broke  from  her 
dark,  dark  eyes, 

And  shot  itself  into  the  singing  winds  ; 

A mystic  light  flash’d  ev’n  from  her 
white  robe 

As  from  a glass  in  the  sun,  and  fell 
about 

My  footsteps  on  the  mountains. 

Last  we  came 

To  what  our  people  call  “ The  Hill  of 
Woe.” 


532 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


A bridge  is  there,  that,  look’d  at  from 
beneath 

Seems  but  a cobweb  filament  to  link 
The  yawning  of  an  earthquake-cloven 
chasm. 

v And  thence  one  night,  when  all  the 
winds  were  loud, 

A woful  man  (for  so  the  story  went) 
Had  thrust  his  wife  and  child  and 
dash’d  himself 

Into  the  dizzy  depth  below.  Below, 
Fierce  in  the  strength  of  far  descent, 
a stream 

Flies  with  a shatter’d  foam  along  the 
chasm. 

The  path  was  perilous,  loosely  strown 
with  crags  : 

We  mounted  slowly ; yet  to  both 
there  came 

The  joy  of  life  in  steepness  overcome, 
And  victories  of  ascent,  and  looking 
down 

On  all  that  had  look’d  down  on  us ; 
and  joy 

In  breathing  nearer  heaven ; and  joy 
to  me, 

High  over  all  the  azure-circled  earth, 
To  breath  with  her  as  if  in  heaven  it- 
self ; 

And  more  than  joy  that  I to  her  be- 
came 

Her  guardian  and  her  angel,  raising  her 
Still  higher,  past  all  peril,  until  she  saw 
Beneath  her  feet  the  region  far  away, 
Beyond  the  nearest  mountain’s  bosky 
brows, 

Ariseinopen  prospect — heath  and  hill, 
And  hollow  lined  and  wooded  to  the 
lips, 

And  deep-down  walls  of  battlemented 
rock 

Gilded  with  broom,  or  shatter’d  into 
spires, 

And  glory  of  broad  waters  interfused, 
Whence  rose  as  it  were  breath  and 
steam  of  gold, 

And  over  all  the  great  wood  rioting 
And  climbing,  streak’d  or  starr’d  at 
intervals 

With  falling  brook  or  blossom’d  bush 
— and  last. 


Framing  the  mighty  landscape  to  the 
west, 

A purple  range  of  mountain-cones, 
between 

Whose  interspaces  gush’d  in  blinding 
bursts 

The  incorporate  blaze  of  sun  and  sea. 

At  length 

Descending  from  the  point  and  stand- 
ing both, 

There  on  the  tremulous  bridge,  that 
from  beneath 

Had  seem’d  a gossamer  filament  up  in 
air, 

We  paused  amid  the  splendor.  All 
the  west 

And  ev’n  unto  the  middle  south  was 
ribb’d 

And  barr’d  with  bloom  on  bloom. 
The  sun  below, 

Held  for  a space  ’twixt  cloud  and 
wave,  shower’d  down 

Bays  of  a mighty  circle,  weaving  over 

That  various  wilderness  a tissue  of 
light 

Unparallel’d.  On  the  other  side,  the 
moon, 

Half-melted  into  thin  blue  air,  stood 
still, 

And  pale  and  fibrous  as  a wither’d 
leaf, 

Not  yet  endured  in  presence  of  His  eyes 

To  indue  his  lustre  ; most  unloverlike, 

Since  in  his  absence  full  of  light  and 

joy, 

And  giving  light  to  others.  But  this 
most, 

Next  to  her  presence  whom  I loved 
so  well, 

Spoke  loudly  even  into  my  inmost 
heart 

As  to  my  outward  hearing:  the  loud 
stream, 

Forth  issuing  from  his  portals  in  the 
crag 

(A  visible  link  unto  the  home  of  my 
heart), 

Ban  amber  toward  the  west,  and  nigh 
the  sea 

Parting  my  own  loved  mountains  was 
received, 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE.  • 


533 


•horn  of  its  strength,  into  the  sym- 
pathy 

>f  that  small  bay,  which  out  to  open 
main 

flow'd  intermingling  close  beneath 
the  sun. 

pirit  of  Love ! that  little  hour  was 
bound 

hut  in  from  Time,  and  dedicate  to 
thee : 

hy  fires  from  heaven  had  touch'd  it, 
and  the  earth 

hey  fell  on  became  hallow'd  ever- 
more. 

We  turn’d:  our  eyes  met:  hers 
were  bright,  and  mine 
7 ere  dim  with  floating  tears,  that  shot 
the  sunset 

1 lightnings  round  me ; and  my  name 
was  borne 

pon  her  breath.  Henceforth  my 
name  has  been 

hallow'd  memory  like  the  names  of 
old, 

center'd,  glory-circled  memory, 
nd  a peculiar  treasure,  brooking 
not 

xchange  or  currency:  and  in  that 
hour 

hope  flow’d  round  me,  like  a golden 
mist 

aarm'd  amid  eddiesof  melodious  airs, 
moment,  ere  the  onward  whirlwind 
i shatter  it, 

aver’d  and  floated  — which  was  less 
than  Hope, 

icause  it  lack'd  the  power  of  perfect 
Hope; 

it  which  was  more  and  higher  than 
; all  Hope, 

‘cause  all  other  Hope  had  lower  aim ; 
f/en  that  this  name  to  which  her 
gracious  lips 

d lend  such  gentle  utterance,  this 
one  name, 

f some  obscure  hereafter,  might  in- 
wreathe 

f OW  lovelier,  nobler  then!)  her  life, 
her  love, 

ith  my  life,  love,  soul,  spirit,  and 
heart  and  strength. 


“ Brother,"  she  said,  “ let  this  be 
call'd  henceforth 

The  Hill  of  Hope ; " and  I replied, 
“O  sister, 

My  will  is  one  with  thine ; the  Hill  of 
Hope." 

Nevertheless,  we  did  not  change  the 
name. 

I did  not  speak : I could  not  speak 
my  love. 

Love  lieth  deep  : Love  dwells  not  in 
lip-depths. 

Love  wraps  his  wings  on  either  side 
the  heart, 

Constraining  it  with  kisses  close  and 
warm, 

Absorbing  all  the  incense  of  sweet 
thoughts 

So  that  they  pass  not  to  the  shrine  of 
sound. 

Else  had  the  life  of  that  delighted  hour 

Drunk  in  the  largeness  of  the  utter- 
ance 

Of  Love ; but  how  should  Earthly 
measure  mete 

The  Heavenly-unmeasured  or  unlimit- 
ed Love, 

Who  scarce  can  tune  his  high  majestic 
sense 

Unto  the  thundersong  that  wheels  the 
spheres, 

Scarce  living  in  the  ASolian  harmony. 

And  flowing  odor  of  the  spacious  air, 

Scarce  housed  within  the  circle  of  this 
Earth, 

Be  cabin'd  up  in  words  and  syllables, 

Which  pass  with  that  which  breathes 
them  ? Sooner  Earth 

Might  go  round  Heaven,  and  the  strait 
girth  of  Time 

Inswathe  the  fulness  of  Eternity, 

Than  language  grasp  the  infinite  of 
Love. 

O day  which  did  enwomb  that  happy 
hour, 

Thou  art  blessed  in  the  years,  divinest 
day ! 

O Genius  of  that  hour  which  dost  up 
hold 

Thy  coronal  of  glory  like  a God, 


534 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Amid  thy  melancholy  mates  far-seen, 

Who  walk  before  thee,  ever  turning 
round 

To  gaze  upon  thee  till  their  eyes  are 
dim 

With  dwelling  on  the  light  and  depth 
of  thine, 

Thy  name  is  ever  worshipp’d  among 
hours ! 

Had  I died  then,  I had  not  seem  d to 

die, 

For  bliss  stood  round  me  like  the  light 
of  Heaven, — 

Had  I died  then,  I had  not  known  the 
death ; 

Yea  had  the  Power  from  whose  right 
hand  the  light 

Of  Life  issueth,  and  from  whose  left 
hand  floweth 

The  Shadow  of  Death,  perennial  efflu- 
ences, 

Whereof  to  all  that  draw  the  whole- 
some air, 

Somewhile  the  one  must  overflow  the 
other ; 

Then  had  he  stemm’d  my  day  with 
night,  and  driven 

My  current  to  the  fountain  whence  it 
sprang,  — 

Even  his  own  abiding  excellence  — 

On  me,  methinks,  that  shock  of  gloom 
had  fall’n 

Unfelt,  and  in  this  glory  I had  merged 

The  other,  like  the  sun  I gazed 
upon, 

Which  seeming  for  the  moment  due 
to  death, 

And  dipping  his  head  low  beneath  the 
verge, 

Yet  bearing  round  about  him  his  own 
day, 

In  confidence  of  unabated  strength, 

Steppeth  from  Heaven  to  Heaven, 
from  light  to  light, 

And  holdeth  his  undimmed  forehead 
far 

Into  a clearer  zenith,  pure  of  cloud. 

We  trod  the  shadow  of  the  down- 
ward hill ; 

We  past  from  light  to  dark.  On  the 
other  side 


Is  scoop’d  a cavern  and  a mountain 
hall, 

Which  none  have  fathom’d.  If  you 
go  far  in 

(The  country  people  rumor)  you  may 
hear 

The  moaning  of  the  woman  and  the 
child, 

Shut  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the 
rock. 

I too  have  heard  a sound  — perchance 
of  streams 

Running  far  on  within  its  inmost 
halls, 

The  home  of  darkness ; but  the  cav- 
ern-mouth, 

Half  overtraded  with  a wanton  weed, 
Gives  birth  to  a brawling  brook,  thal 
passing  lightly 

A down  a natural  stair  of  tangled  roots 
Is  presently  received  in  a sweet  grav< 
Of  eglantines,  a place  of  burial 
Far  lovelier  than  its  cradle  ; for  un 
seen> 

But  taken  with  the  sweetness  of  th< 
place, 

It  makes  a constant  bubbling  melon 
That  drowns  the  nearer  echoes.  Lo^ 
er  down 

Spreads  out  a little  lake,  that,  flood 
ing,  leaves 

Low  banks  of  yellow  sand  ; and  fror 
the  woods 

That  belt  it  rise  three  dark,  tall  cj 

presses,  — 

Three  cypresses,  symbols  of  morh 
woe, 

That  men  plant  over  graves. 

Hither  we  cam 
And  sitting  down  upon  the  goldc 
moss, 

Held  converse  sweet  and  low  — lo 
converse  sweet, 

In  which  our  voices  bore  least  pa 
The  wind 

Told  a lovetale  beside  us,  how  he  woo 
The  waters,  and  the  waters  answeiii 
lisp’d 

To  kisses  of  the  wind,  that,  sick  wi 
love, 

Fainted  at  intervals,  and  grew  agaL 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE 


535 


To  utterance  of  passion.  Ye  cannot 
shape 

Fancy  so  fair  as  is  this  memory. 

Methought  all  excellence  that  ever  was 

Had  drawn  herself  from  many  thou- 
sand years, 

And  all  the  separate  Edens  of  this 
earth, 

To  centre  in  this  place  and  time.  I 
listen’d, 

And  her  words  stole  with  most  pre- 
vailing sweetness 

Into  my  heart,  as  thronging  fancies 
come 

To  boys  and  girls  when  summer  days 
are  new, 

And  soul  and  heart  and  body  are  all 
at  ease : 

What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all  ? 

It  was  so  happy  an  hour,  so  sweet  a 
place, 

And  I was  as  the  brother  of  her  blood, 

And  by  that  name  I moved  upon  her 
breath  ; 

Dear  name,  which  had  too  much  of 
nearness  in  it 

And  heralded  the  distance  of  this  time! 

At  first  her  voice  was  very  sweet  and 
low, 

As  if  she  were  afraid  of  utterance ; 

But  in  the  onward  current  of  her 
speech, 

(As  echoes  of  the  hollow-banked 
brooks 

Are  fashion’d  by  the  channel  which 
they  keep), 

Her  words  did  of  their  meaning  bor- 
row sound, 

Her  cheek  did  catch  the  color  of  her 
words. 

I heard  and  trembled,  yet  I could  but 
hear ; 

My  heart  paused  — my  raised  eyelids 
would  not  fall, 

But  still  I kept  my  eyes  upon  the  sky. 

I seem’d  the  only  part  of  Time  stood 
still, 

And  saw  the  motion  cf  all  other  things ; 

While  her  words,  syllable  by  syllable, 

Like  water,  drop  by  drop,  upon  my  ear 

Fell ; and  I wish’d,  yet  wish’d  her  not 
to  speak; 


But  she  spake  on,  for  I did  name  no 
wish, 

What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all 
Her  maiden  dignities  of  Hope  and 
Love  — 

“ Perchance,”  she  said,  “ return’d.” 

Even  then  the  stars 
Did  tremble  in  their  stations  as  I gazed; 
But  she  spake  on,  for  I did  name  no 
wish, 

No  wish — no  hope.  Hope  was  not 
wholly  dead, 

But  breathing  hard  at  the  approach 
of  Death,  — 

Camilla,  my  Camilla,  who  was  mine 
No  longer  in  the  dearest  sense  of  mine  — 
For  all  the  secret  of  her  inmost  heart, 
And  all  the  maiden  empire  of  her 
mind, 

Lay  like  a map  before  me,  and  I saw 
There,  where  I hoped  myself  to  reign 
as  king, 

There,  where  that  day  I crown’d  my- 
self as  king, 

There  in  my  realm  and  even  on  my 
throne, 

Another  ! then  it  seem’d  as  tho’  a link 
Of  some  tight  chain  within  my  inmost 
frame 

Was  riven  in  twain  : that  life  I heeded 
not 

Flow’d  from  me,  and  the  darkness  of 
the  grave, 

The  darkness  of  the  grave  and  utter 
night, 

Did  swallow  up  my  vision  ; at  her  feet, 
Even  the  feet  of  her  I loved,  I fell, 
Smit  with  exceeding  sorrow  unto 
Death. 

Then  had  the  earth  beneath  me 
yawing  cloven 

With  such  a sound  as  when  an  iceberg 
splits 

From  cope  to  base  — had  Heaven  from 
all  her  doors, 

With  all  her  golden  thresholds  clash- 
ing, roll’d 

Her  heaviest  thunder  — I had  lain  as 
dead, 

Mute,  blind  and  motionless  as  then  I 
1 lay; 


536 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


Dead,  for  henceforth  there  was  no  life 
for  me  ! 

Mute,  for  henceforth  what  use  were 
words  to  me ! 

Blind,  for  the  day  was  as  the  night  to 
me  ! 

The  night  to  me  was  kinder  than  the 
day ; 

The  night  in  pity  took  away  my  day, 
Because  my  grief  as  yet  was  newly 
born 

Of  eyes  too  weak  to  look  upon  the 
light ; 

And  thro'  the  hasty  notice  of  the  ear 
Frail  Life  was  startled  from  the  ten- 
der love 

Of  him  she  brooded  over.  Would  I 
had  lain 

Until  the  plaited  ivy-tress  had  wound 
Round  my  worn  limbs,  and  the  wild 
brier  had  driven 

Its  knotted  thorns  thro’  my  unpain- 
ing brows, 

Leaning  its  roses  on  my  faded  eyes. 
The  wind  had  blown  above  me,  and 
the  rain 

Had  fall’n  upon  me,  and  the  gilded 
snake 

Had  nestled  in  this  bosom-throne  of 
Love, 

But  I had  been  at  rest  for  evermore. 

Long  time  entrancement  held  me. 
All  too  soon 

Life  (like  a wanton  too-officious  friend, 
Who  will  not  hear  denial,  vain  and 
rude 

With  proffer  of  unwish’d-for  services) 
Entering  all  the  avenues  of  sense 
Past  thro’  into  his  citadel,  the  brain, 
With  hated  warmth  of  apprehensive- 
ness. 

And  first  the  chillness  of  the  sprinkled 
brook 

Smote  on  my  brows,  and  then  I seem’d 
to  hear 

Its  murmur,  as  the  drowning  seaman 
hears, 

Who  with  his  head  below  the  surface 
dropt 

Listens  the  muffled  bootning  indistinct 
Of  the  confused  floods,  and  dimly  knows 


His  head  shall  rise  no  more : and  then 
came  in 

The  white  light  of  the  weary  moon 
above, 

Diffused  and  molten  into  flaky  cloud. 

Was  my  sight  drunk  that  it  did  shape 
to  me 

Him  who  should  own  that  name1?  Were 
it  not  well 

If  so  be  that  the  echo  of  that  name 

Ringing  within  the  fancy  had  updrawn 

A fashion  and  a phantasm  of  the 
form 

It  should  attach  to  ? Phantom ! — 
had  the  ghastliest 

That  ever  lusted  for  a body,  sucking 

The  foul  steam  of  the  grave  to  thicken 
by  it, 

There  in  the  shuddering  moonlight 
brought  its  face 

And  what  it  has  for  eyes  as  close  to 
mine 

As  he  did  — better  that  than  his,  than 
he 

The  friend,  the  neighbor,  Lionel,  the 
beloved, 

The  loved,  the  lover,  the  happy  Lionel, 

The  low-voiced,  tender-spirited  Lionel, 

All  joy,  to  whom  my  agony  was  a joy. 

O how  her  choice  did  leap  forth  from 
his  eyes ! 

0 how  her  love  did  clothe  itself  in 
smiles 

About  his  lips  ! and  — not  one  mo* 
ment’s  grace  — 

Then  when  the  effect  weigh’d  seas 
upon  my  head 

To  come  my  way ! to  twit  me  with  the 
cause ! 

Was  not  the  land  as  free  thro’  all 
her  ways 

To  him  as  me  ? Was  not  his  wont  to 
walk 

Between  the  going  light  and  growing 
night  ? 

Had  I not  learnt  my  loss  before  he 
came  ? 

Could  that  be  more  because  he  came 
my  way  ? 

Why  should  he  not  come  my  way  if 
he  would  1 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


537 


^nd  yet  to-night,  to-night  — when  all 
my  wealth 

^lash'd  from  me  in  a moment  and  I 
fell 

beggar’d  for  ever  — why  should  he 
come  my  way 

tobed  in  those  robes  of  light  I must 
not  wear, 

Vith  that  great  crown  of  beams  about 
his  brows  — 

*ome  like  an  angel  to  a damned  soul, 
;0  tell  him  of  the  bliss  he  had  with 
God  — 

/ome  like  a careless  and  a greedy 
heir 

?hat  scarce  can  wait  the  reading  of 
the  will 

before  he  takes  possession 2 Was 
mine  a mood 

Co  be  invaded  rudely,  and  not  rather 
^ sacred,  secret  unapproached  woe, 
Jnspeakable  2 I was  shut  up  with 
Grief ; 

She  took  the  body  of  my  past  delight, 
Warded  and  swathed  and  balm'd  it 
for  herself, 

Vnd  laid  it  in  a sepulchre  of  rock 
^ever  to  rise  again.  I was  led  mute 
nto  her  temple  like  a sacrifice ; 

was  the  High  Priest  in  her  holiest 
place, 

^ot  to  be  loudly  broken  in  upon. 

Oh  friend,  thoughts  deep  and  heavy 
as  these  well-nigh 

Verbore  the  limits  of  my  brain  : but  he 
$ent  o'er  me,  and  my  neck  his  arm 
upstay'd. 

thought  it  was  an  adder's  fold,  and 
once 

strove  to  disengage  myself,  but 
fail'd, 

Seing  so  feeble : she  bent  above  me, 
too;  y 

^an  was  her  cheek;  for  whatsoe'er 
of  blight 

fives  in  the  dewj  touch  of  pity  had 
made 

file  red  rose  there  a pale  one  — and 
her  eyes  — 

saw  the  moonlight  glitter  on  their 
tears  — 


And  some  few  drops  of  that  distress- 
ful rain 

Fell  on  my  face,  and  her  long  ringlets 
moved, 

Drooping  and  beaten  by  the  breeze, 
and  brush’d 

My  fallen  forehead  in  their  to  and 
fro, 

For  in  the  sudden  anguish  of  her  heart 

Loosed  from  their  simple  thrall  they 
had  flow’d  abroad, 

And  floated  on  and  parted  round  her 
neck, 

Mantling  her  form  halfwry.  She, 
when  I woke, 

Something  she  ask’d,  I know  not  what, 
and  ask'd, 

Unanswer'd,  since  I spake  not ; for 
the  sound 

Of  that  dear  voice  so  musically  low, 

And  now  first  heard  with  any  sense 
of  pain, 

As  it  had  taken  life  away  before, 

Choked  all  the  syllables,  that  strove 
to  rise 

From  my  full  heart. 

The  blissful  lover,  too, 

From  his  great  hoard  of  happiness 
distill'd 

Some  drops  of  solace ; like  a vain 
rich  man. 

That,  having  always  prosper’d  in  the 
world, 

Folding  his  hands,  deals  comfortable 
words 

To  hearts  wounded  for  ever ; yet,  in 
truth, 

Fair  speech  was  his  and  delicate  of 
phrase, 

Falling  in  whispers  on  the  sense,  ad- 
dress’d 

More  to  the  inward  than  the  outward 
ear, 

As  rain  of  the  midsummer  midnight 
soft, 

Scarce-heard,  recalling  fragrance  and 
the  green 

Of  the  dead  spring  : but  mine  was 
wholly  dead, 

No  bud,  no  leaf,  no  flower,  no  fruit 
for  me. 


538 


"LIE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Yet  who  had  done,  or  who  had  suffer’d 
wrong  ? 

And  why  was  I to  darken  their  pure 
love, 

If,  as  I found,  they  two  did  love  each 
other, 

Because  my  own  was  darken’d  ? Why 
was  I 

To  cross  between  their  happy  star  and 
them  ? 

To  stand  a shadow  by  their  shining 
doors, 

And  vex  them  with  my  darkness  ? 
Did  I love  her  ? 

Ye  know  that  I did  love  her , to  this 
present 

My  full-orb’d  love  has  waned  not. 
Did  I love  her, 

And  could  I look  upon  her  tearful 

eyes  ? 

What  had  she  done  to  weep  ? Why 
should  she  weep  ? 

0 innocent  of  spirit  — let  my  heart 

Break  rather  — whom  the  gentlest 

airs  of  Heaven 

Should  kiss  with  an  unwonted  gentle- 
ness. 

ller  love  did  murder  mine  ? What 
then  ? She  deem’d 

1 wore  a brother’s  mind : she  call’d 

me  brother : 

She  told  me  all  h^r  love  : she  shall 
not  weep. 

The  brightness  of  a burning  thought, 
awhile 

In  battle  with  the  glooms  of  my  dark 
will, 

Moonlike  emerged,  and  to  itself  lit  up 

There  on  the  depth  of  an  unfathom’d 
woe 

Reflex  of  action.  Starting  up  at  once, 

As  from  a dismal  dream  of  my  own 
death, 

I,  for  I loved  her,  lost  my  love  in 
Love ; 

I,  for  I loved  her,  graspt  the  hand  she 
lov’d, 

And  laid  it  in  her  own,  and  sent  my 
cry 

Thro’  the  blank  night  to  Him  who 
loving  made 


The  happy  and  the  unhappy  love 
that  He 

Would  hold  the  hand  of  blessing  ovei 
them, 

Lionel,  the  happy,  and  her,  and  her 
his  bride ! 

Let  them  so  love  that  men  and  boyi 
may  say, 

“ Lo  ! how  they  love  each  other  ! ” til 
their  love 

Shall  ripen  to  a proverb,  unto  all 

Known,  when  their  faces  are  forgot  ii 
the  land  — 

One  golden  dream  of  love,  from  whicl 
may  death 

Awake  them  with  heaven’s  music  in 
life 

More  living  to  some  happier  happ 
ness, 

Swallowing  its  precedent  in  victory. 

And  as  for  me,  Camilla,  as  for  me,  - 

The  dew  of  tears  is  an  unwholesom 
dew, 

They  will  but  sicken  the  sick  plar 
the  more. 

Deem  that  I love  thee  but  as  brother 
do, 

So  shalt  thou  love  me  still  as  sister 
do ; 

Or  if  thou  dream  aught  farthe: 
dream  but  how 

I could  have  loved  thee,  had  ther 
been  none  else 

To  love  as  lovers,  loved  again  b 
thee. 

Or  this,  or  somewhat  like  to  this, 
spake, 

When  I beheld  her  weep  so  ru< 
fully ; 

For  sure  my  love  should  ne’er  indu 
the  front 

And  mask  of  Hate,  who  lives  o 
others’  moans. 

Shall  Love  pledge  Hatred  in  her  bi 
ter  draughts, 

And  batten  on  her  poisons  ? Lov 
forbid ! 

Love  passeth  not  the  threshold  of  col 
Hate, 

And  Hate  is  strange  beneath  the  rot 
of  Love. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE, 


539 


) Love,  if  thou  be’st  Love,  dry  up 
these  tears 

Jhed  for  the  love  of  Love  ; for  tho’ 
mine  image, 

ihe  subject  of  thy  power,  be  cold  in 
her, 

get,  like  cold  snow,  it  melteth  in  the 
source 

)f  these  sad  tears,  and  feeds  their 
downward  flow.  # 

50  Love,  arraign’d  to  judgment  and 
to  death, 

Received  unto  himself  a part  of 
blame, 

Being  guiltless,  as  an  innocent  pri- 
soner, 

Who,  when  the  woful  sentence  hath 
been  past. 

And  all  the  clearness  of  his  fame  hath 
gone 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  curse  of 
man, 

First  falls  asleep  in  swoon,  wherefrom 
awaked, 

And  looking  round  upon  his  tearful 
friends, 

Forthwith  and  in  his  agony  con- 
ceives 

A shameful  sense  as  of  a cleaving 
crime  — 

For  whence  without  some  guilt  should 
such  grief  be  ? 

So  died  that  hour,  and  fell  into  the 
abysm 

Of  forms  outworn,  but  not  to  me  out- 
worn, 

Who  never  hail’d  another-  - was  there 
one  ? 

There  might  be  one  — one  other,  worth 
the  life 

That  made  it  sensible.  So  that  hour 
died 

Like  odor  rapt  into  the  winged 
wind 

Borne  into  alien  lands  and  far  away. 

There  be  some  hearts  so  airily  built, 
that  they, 

They  — when  their  love  is  wreck’d  — 
if  Love  can  wreck  — ■ 

On  that  sharp  ridge  of  utmost  doom 
ride  highly 


Above  the  perilous  seas  of  Change 
and  Chance ; 

Nay,  more,  hold  out  the  lights  of 
cheerfulness  ; 

As  the  tall  ship,  that  many  a dreary 
year 

Knit  to  some  dismal  sandbank  far  at 
sea, 

All  thro’  the  livelong  hours  of  utter 
dark, 

Showers  slanting  light  upon  the  dolor- 
ous wave. 

For  me  — what  light,  what  gleam  on 
those  black  ways 

Where  Love  could  walk  with  banish  d 
Hope  no  more  ? 

It  was  ill-done  to  part  you,  Sisters 
fair ; 

Love’s  arms  were  wreath’d  about  the 
neck  of  Hope, 

And  Hope  kiss’d  Love,  and  Love 
drew  in  her  breath 

In  that  close  kiss,  and  drank  her 
whisper’d  tales. 

They  said  that  Love  would  die  when 
Hope  was  gone, 

And  Love  mourn’d  long,  and  sorrow’d 
after  Hope  ; 

At  last  she  sought  out  Memory,  and 
they  trod 

The  same  old  paths  where  Love  had 
walk’d  with  Hope, 

And  Memory  fed  the  soul  of  Love 
with  tears. 

II. 

From  that  time  forth  I would  not  see 
her  more ; 

But  many  weary  moons  I lived 
alone  — 

Alone,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
forest. 

Sometimes  upon  the  hills  beside  the 
sea 

All  day  I watch’d  the  floating  isles  of 
shade, 

And  sometimes  on  the  shore,  upon  the 
sands 

Insensibly  I drew  her  name,  until 

The  meaning  of  the  letters  shot  into 


540 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


My  brain;  anon  the  wanton  billow 
wash’d 

Them  over,  till  they  faded  like  my 
love. 

The  hollow  caverns  heard  me — the 
black  brooks 

Of  the  midforest  heard  me  — the  soft 
winds, 

Laden  with  thistledown  and  seeds  of 
flowers, 

Paused  in  their  course  to  hear  me,  for 
my  voice 

Was  all  of  thee:  the  merry  linnet 
knew  me, 

The  squirrel  knew  me,  and  the  dragon- 

fly 

Shot  by  me  like  a flash  of  purple  fire. 

The  rough  brier  tore  my  bleeding 
palms ; the  hemlock, 

Brow-high,  did  strike  my  forehead  as 
I past  ; 

Yet  trod  I not  the  wildflower  in  my 
path, 

Nor  bruised  the  wildbird’s  egg. 

Was  this  the  end  ? 

Why  grew  we  then  together  in  one 
plot  ? 

Why  fed  we  from  one  fountain  ? drew 
one  sun  ? 

Why  were  our  mothers’  branches  of 
one  stem  ? 

Why  were  we  one  in  all  things,  save 
in  that 

Where  to  have  been  one  had  been  the 
cope  and  crown 

Of  all  I hoped  and  fear’d  ? — if  that 
same  nearness 

Were  father  to  this  distance,  and  that 
one 

Yauntcourier  to  the  double  ? if  Affec- 
tion 

Living  slew  Love,  and  Sympathy 
hew’d  out 

The  bosom-sepulchre  of  Sympathy  ? 

Chiefly  I sought  the  cavern  and  the 
hill 

Where  last  we  roam’d  together,  for  the 
sound 

Of  the  loud  stream  was  pleasant,  and 
the  wind 


Came  wooingly  with  woodbine  smelis 
Sometimes 

All  day  I sat  within  the  cavern-mouth, 

Fixing  my  eyes  on  those  three  cypress 
cones 

That  spired  above  the  wood ; and  with 
mad  hand 

Tearing  the  bright  leaves  of  the  ivy- 
screen, 

I cast  them  in  the  noisy  brook  be- 
neath, 

And  watch’d  them  till  they  vanish’d 
from  my  sight 

Beneath  the  bower  of  wreathed  eglan- 
tines : 

And  all  the  fragments  of  the  living 
rock 

(Huge  blocks,  which  some  old  trem- 
bling of  the  world 

Had  loosen’d  from  the  mountain,  till 
they  fell 

Half-digging  their  own  graves)  these 
in  my  agony 

Did  I make  bare  of  all  the  golden 
moss, 

Wherewith  the  dashing  runnel  in  the 
spring 

Had  liveried  them  all  over.  In  my 
brain 

The  spirit  seem’d  to  flag  from  thought 
to  thought, 

As  moonlight  wandering  thro’  a mist 
my  blood 

Crept  like  marsh  drains  thro’  all  my 
languid  limbs ; 

The  motions  of  my  heart  seem’d  far 
within  me, 

Unfrequent,  low,  as  tho’  it  told  its 
pulses ; 

And  yet  it  shook  me,  that  my  frame 
would  shudder, 

As  if  ’twere  drawn  asunder  by  the  rack. 

But  over  the  deep  graves  of  Hope  and 
Fear, 

And  all  the  broken  palaces  of  the 
Past, 

Brooded  one  master-passion  evermore, 

Like  to  a low-hung  and  a fiery  sky 

Above  some  fair  metropolis,  earth- 
shock’d,  — 

Hung  round  with  ragged  rims  and 
burning  folds.  — 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


541 


Smbathing  all  with  wild  and  woful 
hues, 

xreat  hills  of  ruins,  and  collapsed 
masses 

)f  thundersllaken  columns  indistinct, 
^nd  fused  together  in  the  tyrannous 
light  — 

iuins,  the  ruin  of  all  my  life  and  me ! 

Sometimes  I thought  Camilla  was 
no  more, 

Some  one  had  told  me  she  was  dead, 
and  ask’d 

f I would  see  her  burial : then  I seem’d 
To  rise,  and  through  the  forest-shadow 
borne 

>Vith  more  than  mortal  swiftness,  I 
ran  down 

the  steepy  sea-bank,  till  I came  upon 
Che  rear  of  a procession,  curving  round 
The  silver-sheeted  bay : in  front  of 
which 

Six  stately  virgins,  all  in  white,  upbear 
i broad  earth-sweeping  pall  of  whitest 
lawn, 

breathed  round  the  bier  with  gar- 
lands : in  the  distance, 

?rom  out  the  yellow  woods  upon  the 
hill 

x>ok’d  forth  the  summit  and  the  pin- 
nacles 

)f  a gray  steeple  — thence  at  intervals 
^ low  bell  tolling.  All  the  pageantry, 
>ave  those  six  virgins  which  upheld 
the  bier, 

Vere  stoled  from  head  to  foot  in  flow- 
ing black ; 

)ne  walk’d  abreast  with  me,  and  veil’d 
his  brow, 

Ind  he  was  loud  in  weeping  and  in 
praise 

)f  her  we  follow’d:  a strong  sympathy 
hook  all  my  soul:  I flung  myself 
upon  him 

n tears  and  cries : I told  him  all  my 
love, 

low  I had  loved  her  from  the  first ; 
whereat 

le  shrank  and  howl’d,  and  from  his 
brow  drew  back 

Lis  hand  to  push  me  from  him  ; and 
the  face 


The  very  face  and  form  of  Lionel 
Flash’d  thro’  my  eyes  into  my  inner- 
most brain, 

And  at  his  feet  I seem’d  to  faint  and 
fall, 

To  fall  and  die  away.  I could  not  rise 
Albeit  I strove  to  follow.  They  past 
on, 

The  lordly  Phantasms ! in  their  float- 
ing folds 

They  past  and  were  no  more : but  I 
had  fallen 

Prone  by  the  dashing  runnel  on  the 
grass. 

Alway  the  inaudible  invisible 
thought, 

Artificer  and  subject,  lord  and  slave, 
Shaped  by  the  audible  and  visible, 
Moulded  the  audible  and  visible; 

All  crisped  sounds  of  wave  and  leaf 
and  wind, 

Flatter’d  the  fancy  of  my  fading  brain; 
The  cloud-pavilion’d  element,  the 
wood, 

The  mountain,  the  three  cypresses,  the 
cave, 

Storm,  sunset,  glows  and  glories  of 
the  moon 

Below  black  firs,  when  silent-creeping 
winds 

Laid  the  long  night  in  silver  streaks 
and  bars, 

Were  wrought  into  the  tissue  of  my 
dream  : 

The  moanings  in  the  forest,  the  loud 
brook, 

Cries  of  the  partridge  like  a rusty  key 
Turn’d  in  a lock,  owl-whoop  and  dor- 
hawk-whirr 

Awoke  me  not,  but  were  a part  of 
sleep, 

And  voices  in  the  distance  calling  to  me 
And  in  my  vision  bidding  me  dream  on, 
Like  sounds  without  the  twilight  realm 
of  dreams, 

Which  wander  round  the  bases  of  the 
hills, 

And  murmur  at  the  low-dropt  eaves 
of  sleep, 

Half-entering  the  portals.  Oftentimes 
The  vision  had  fair  prelude,  in  the  end 


542 


THE  LO  FEE’S  TALE. 


Opening  on  darkness,  stately  vesti- 
bules 

To  caves  and  shows  of  Death  : wheth- 
er the  mind, 

With  some  revenge — even  to  itself 
unknown,  — 

Made  strange  division  of  its  suffering 
With  her,  whom  to  have  suffering 
view’d  had  been 

Extremest  pain  ; or  that  the  clear-eyed 
Spirit, 

Being  blunted  in  the  Present,  grew  at 
length 

Prophetical  and  prescient  of  whate’er 
The  Future  had  in  store : or  that 
which  most 

Enchains  belief,  the  sorrow  of  my 
spirit 

Was  of  so  wide  a compass  it  took  in 
All  I had  loved,  and  my  dull  agony, 
Ideally,  to  her  transferr’d,  became 
Anguish  intolerable. 

The  day  waned ; 
ilone  I sat  with  her ; about  my 
brow 

Her  warm  breath  floated  in  the  utter- 
ance 

Of  silver-chorded  tones : her  lips 
were  sunder’d 

With  smiles  of  tranquil  bliss,  which 
broke  in  light 

Like  morning  from  her  eyes  — her 
eloquent  eyes, 

(As  I have  seen  them  many  a hundred 
times) 

Fill’d  all  with  pure  clear  fire,  thro’ 
mine  down  rain’d 

Their  spirit-searching  splendors.  As 
a vision 

Unto  a haggard  prisoner,  iron-stay’d 
In  damp  and  dismal  dungeons  under- 
ground, 

Confined  on  points  of  faith,  when 
strength  is  shock’d 
With  torment,  and  expectancy  of 
worse 

Upon  the  morrow,  thro’  the  ragged 
walls, 

All  unawares  before  his  half-shut  eyes, 
Comes  in  upon  him  in  the  dead  of 
night. 


And  with  the  excess  of  sweetness  and 
of  awe, 

Makes  the  heart  tremble,  and  the 
sight  run  over 

Upon  his  steely  gyves ; so  those  fair 
eyes 

Shone  on  my  darkness,  forms  which 
ever  stood 

Within  the  magic  cirque  of  memory, 
Invisible  but  deathless,  waiting  still 
The  edict  of  the  '*rill  to  reassume 
The  semblance  of  those  rare  realities 
Of  which  they  were  the  mirrors.  Now 
the  light 

Which  was  their  life,  burst  through 
the  cloud  of  thought 
Keen,  irrepressible. 

It  was  a room 

Within  the  summer-house  of  which  1 
spake, 

Hung  round  with  paintings  of  the  sea, 
and  one 

A vessel  in  mid-ocean,  her  heaved 
y row 

Clambering,  the  mast  bent  and  the 
?avin  wind 

In  her  sail  roaring.  From  the  outer 
day, 

Betwixt  the  close-set  ivies  came  a 
broad 

And  solid  beam  of  isolated  light, 
Crowded  with  driving  atomies,  and 
fell 

Slanting  upon  that  picture,  from  prime 
youth 

Well-known  well-loved.  She  drew  it 
long  ago 

Forthgazing  on  the  waste  and  oper 
sea, 

One  morning  when  the  upblown  bil 
low  ran 

Shoreward  beneath  red  clouds,  and  1 
had  pour’d 

Into  the  shadowing  pencil’s  naked 
forms 

Color  and  life  : it  was  a bond  and  sea 
Of  friendship,  spoken  of  with  tearfu 
smiles  ; 

A monument  of  childhood  and  oi 
love  ; 

' The  poesy  of  childhood  : my  lost  lov< 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


543 


Symbol’d  in  storm.  We  gazed  on  it 
together 

In  mute  and  glad  remembrance,  and 
each  heart 

Grew  closer  to  the  other,  and  the  eye 

Was  riveted  and  charm-bound,  gazing 
like 

The  Indian  on  a still-eyed  snake,  low- 
couch’d  — 

A beauty  which  is  death ; when  all  at 
once 

That  painted  vessel,  as  with  inner 
life, 

Began  to  heave  upon  that  painted 
sea ; 

An  earthquake,  my  loud  heart-beats, 
made  the  ground 

Reel  under  us,  and  all  at  once,  soul, 
life 

And  breath  and  motion,  past  and 
flow’d  away 

To  those  unreal  billows : round  and 
round 

A whirlwind  caught  and  bore  us ; 
mighty  gyres 

Rapid  and  vast,  of  hissing  spray  wind- 
driven 

Tar  thro’  the  dizzy  dark.  Aloud  she 
shriek’d ; 

My  heart  was  cloven  with  pain;  I 
wound  my  arms 

About  her : we  whirl’d  giddily ; the 
wind 

j Sung ; but  I clasp’d  her  without  fear : 
her  weight 

Shrank  in  my  grasp,  and  over  my  dim 
eyes, 

And  parted  lips  which  drank  her 
breath,  down-hung 

The  jaws  of  Death : I,  groaning,  from 
me  flung 

Her  empty  phantom  * all  the  sway  and 
whirl 

Of  the  storm  dropt  to  windless  calm, 
and  I 

Down  welter’d  thro’  the  dark  ever  and 


III. 

I came  one  day  and  sat  among  the 
stones 


Strewn  in  the  entry  of  the  moaning 
cave ; 

A morning  air,  sweet  after  rain,  ran 
over 

The  rippling  levels  of  the  lake,  and 
blew 

Coolness  and  moisture  and  all  smells 
of  bud 

And  foliage  from  the  dark  and  drip- 
ping woods 

Upon  my  fever’d  brows  that  shook 
and  throbb’d 

From  temple  unto  temple.  To  what 
height 

The  day  had  grown  I know  not.  Then 
came  on  me 

The  hollow  tolling  of  the  bell,  and  all 

The  vision  of  the  bier.  As  heretofore 

I walk’d  behind  with  one  who  veil’d 
his  brow. 

Methought  by  slow  degrees  the  sullen 
bell 

Toll’d  quicker,  and  the  breakers  on  the 
shore 

Sloped  into  louder  surf : those  that 
went  with  me, 

And  those  that  held  the  bier  before 
my  face, 

Moved  with  one  spirit  round  about 
the  bay, 

Trod  swifter  steps  ; and  while  I walk’d 
with  these 

In  marvel  at  that  gradual  change,  I 
thought 

Four  bells  instead  of  one  began  to 
ring, 

Four  merry  bells,  four  merry  marriage 
bells, 

In  clanging  cadence  jangling  peal  on 
peal  — 

A long  loud  clash  of  rapid  marriage- 
bells. 

Then  those  who  led  the  van,  and  those 
in  rear, 

Rush’d  into  dance,  and  like  wild  Bac- 
chanals 

Fled  onward  to  the  steeple  in  the 
woods : 

I,  too,  was  borne  along  and  felt  the 
blast 

Beat  on  my  heated  eyelids  : all  at 
once 


544 


THE  LOVERS  TALE . 


The  front  rank  made  a sudden  halt ; 
the  bells 

Lapsed  into  frightful  stillness ; the 
surge  fell 

From  thunder  into  whispers ; those  six 
maids 

With  shrieks  and  ringing  laughter  on 
the  sand 

Threw  down  the  bier ; the  woods  upon 
the  hill 

Waved  with  a sudden  gust  that  sweep- 
ing down 

Took  the  edges  of  the  pall,  and  blew 
it  far 

Until  it  hung,  a little  silver  cloud 

Over  the  sounding  seas  : I turn’d : my 
heart 

Shrank  in  me,  like  a snowflake  in  the 
hand, 

Waiting, to  see  the  settled  countenance 

Of  her  I loved,  adorn’d  with  fading 
flowers. 

But  she  from  out  her  death-like 
chrysalis, 

She  from  her  bier,  as  into  fresher 
life, 

My  sister,  and  my  cousin,  and  my 
love, 

Leapt  lightly  clad  in  bridal  white  — 
her  hair 

Studded  with  one  rich  Provence  rose 
— a light 

Of  smiling  welcome  round  her  lips  — 
her  eyes 

And  cheeks  as  bright  as  when  she 
climb’d  the  hill. 

One  hand  she  reach’d  to  those  that 
came  behind, 

And  while  I mused  nor  yet  endured 
to  take 

So  rich  a prize,  the  man  who  stood 
with  me 

Stept  gaily  forward,  throwing  down 
his  robes, 

And  claspt  her  hand  in  his : again  the 
bells 

Jangled  and  clang’d  : again  the  stormy 
surf 

Crash’d  in  the  shingle : and  the  whirl- 
ing rout 

Led  by  those  two  rush’d  into  dance, 
and  fled 


Wind-footed  to  the  steeple  in  the 
woods, 

Till  they  were  swallow’d  in  the  leafy 
bowers, 

And  I stood  sole  beside  the  vacant 
bier. 

There,  there,  my  latest  vision  — then 
the  event ! 

IV. 

THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER.1 

(Another  speaks.) 

He  flies  the  event : he  leaves  the  event 
to  me : 

Poor  Julian — how  he  rush’d  away; 
the  bells, 

Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  eaf* 
and  heart  — 

But  cast  a parting  glance  at  me,  you 
saw, 

As  who  should  say  “ Continue.”  Well 
he  had 

One  golden  hour  — of  triumph  shall  [ 
say  ? 

Solace  at  least  — before  he  left  Iks 
home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that 
hour  of  his ! 

He  moved  thro’  all  of  it  majesti- 
cally — 

Restrain’d  himself  quite  to  the  close  — 
but  now  — 

Whether  they  were  his  lady’s  mar 
riage  bells, 

Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 

I never  ask’d : but  Lionel  and  the  gin 

Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came 
again 

Back  to  his  mother’s  house  among  the 
pines. 

But  these,  their  gloom,  the  mountains 
and  the  Bay, 

The  whole  land  weigh’d  him  down  as 
iEtna  does 

The  Giant  of  Mythology:  he  would 
go, 

1 This  poem  is  founded  upon  a story  in 

Boccaccio.  Bee  Introduction,  p.  647. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


545 


T ould  leave  the  land  for  ever,  and 
had  gone 

urely,  but  for  a whisper,  “ Go  not 
yet”  . . , 

ome  warning  — sent  divinely  — as  it 
seem'd 

y that  which  follow’d  — but  of  this 
I deem 

s of  the  visions  that  he  told  — the 
event 

lanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after 
life, 

md  partly  made  them  — tho’  he  knew 
it  not. 

And  thus  he  stay’d  and  would  not 
look  at  her  — 

lo  not  for  months : but,  when  the 
eleventh  moon 

if  ter  their  marriage  lit  the  lover’s  Bay, 

leard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell, 
and  said, 

Vhuld  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life, 
but  found  — 

til  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to 
him  — 

t crueller  reason  than  a crazy  ear, 

"or  that  low  knell  tolling  his  lady 
dead  — 

)ead  — and  had  lain  three  days  with- 
out a pulse  : 

til  that  look’d  on  her  had  pronounced 
her  dead. 

^nd  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian’s 
land 

They  never  nail  a dumb  head  up  in 
elm), 

Sore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of 
heaven, 

ind  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own 
kin. 

What  did  he  then  ? not  die : he  is 
here  and  hale  — 

^ot  plunge  headforemost  from  the 
mountain  there, 

\md  leave  the  name  of  Lover’s  Leap  : 
not  he  : 

le  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper 
now, 

Thought  that  he  knew  it.  “ This,  I 
stay’d  for  this ; 


0 love,  I have  not  seen  you  for  so 

long. 

Now,  now,  will  I go  down  into  the 
grave, 

1 will  be  all  alone  with  all  I love, 

And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.  She  is  his 

no  more : 

The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead.” 

The  fancy  stirr’d  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the 
dim  vault, 

And,  making  there  a sudden  light,  be- 
held 

All  round  about  him  that  which  all 
will  be. 

The  light  was  but  a flash,  and  went 
again. 

Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her 
face ; 

Her  breast  as  in  a shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which 
the  moon 

Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of 
her 

Drown’d  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of 
the  vault. 

“ It  was  my  wish,”  he  said,  “ to  pass, 
to  sleep, 

To  rest,  to  be  with  her — till  th£  great 
day 

Peal’d  on  us  with  that  music  which 
rights  all, 

And  raised  us  hand  in  hand.”  And 
kneeling  there 

Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once 
was  man, 

Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 
hearts, 

Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a love 
as  mine  — 

Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 
her  — 

He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss’d  her  more  than  once,  till 
helpless  death 

And  silence  made  him  bold  — nay,  but 
I I wrong  him, 


546 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in 
death ; 

But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  her 
heart, 

“0,  you  warm  heart,”  he  moan’d, 
“ not  even  death 

Can  chill  you  all  at  once  : ” then  start- 
ing, thought 

His  dreams  had  come  again.  “ Do  I 
wake  or  sleep  ? 

Or  am  I made  immortal,  or  my  love 

Mortal  once  more  ? ” It  beat  — the 
heart  — it  beat : 

Faint  — but  it  beat : at  which  his  own 
began 

To  pulse  with  such  a vehemence  that 
it  drown’d 

The  feebler  motion  underneath  his 
hand. 

But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  sat- 
isfied, 

He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepul- 
chre, 

And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the 
cloak 

He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and 
now 

Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 

Holding  his  golden  burthen  in  his 
arms, 

So  bore  her  thro’  the  solitary  land 

Back  to  the  mother’s  house  where  she 
was  born. 

There  the  good  mother’s  kindly  min- 
istering, 

With  half  a night’s  appliances,  recall’d 

Her  fluttering  life  : she  rais’d  an  eye 
that  ask’d 

“ Where  ? ” till  the  things  familiar  to 
her  youth 

Had  made  a silent  answer : then  she 
spoke 

“ Here  ! and  how  came  I here  ? ” and 
learning  it 

(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I 
think) 

At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 

“ Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give 
me  back  : 

Send ! bid  him  come ; ” but  Lionel 
was  away — ■ 


Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanish’d,  none 
knew  where. 

“He  casts  me  out,”  she  wept,  “ and 
goes  ” — a wail 

That  seeming  something,  yet  was  noth* 
ing,  born 

Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter’d 
nerve, 

Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  re- 
proof 

At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 

Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had 
return’d, 

“ Oh  yes,  and  you,”  she  said,  “ and 
none  but  you  ? 

For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love 
again, 

And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tel] 
him  of  it, 

And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he 
returns.” 

“ Stay  then  a little,”  answer’d  Julian 
“ here, 

And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to 
yourself ; 

And  I will  do  your  will.  I may  not 
stay, 

No,  not  an  hour;  but  send  me  notice 
of  him 

When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I re 
turn, 

And  I will  make  a solemn  offering  of 
you 

To  him  you  love.”  And  faintly  she 
replied, 

“ And  I will  do  your  will,  and  none 
shall  know.” 

Not  know  ? with  such  a secret  to  be 
known. 

But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved 
them  both, 

And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves 
of  both  ; 

Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any 
way, 

And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  soli- 
tary: 

And  then  he  rode  away ; but  after  this, 

An  hour  or  two,  Camilla’s  travail  came 

Upon  her,  and  that  day  a boy  was  born, 

Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


547 


And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 
And  pausing  at  a hostel  in  a marsh, 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  : myself 
was  then 

Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to 
rest  an  hour ; 

And  sitting  down  to  such  a base  repast, 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 

I heard  a groaning  overhead,  and 
climb’d 

The  moulder’d  stairs  (for  everything 
was  vile) 

And  in  a loft,  with  none  to  wait  on 
him, 

Found,  as  it  seem’d,  a skeleton  alone, 
Having  of  dead  men’s  dust  and  beat- 
ing hearts. 

A dismal  hostel  in  a dismal  land, 

A flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush  ! 
JBut  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of 
him 

Sprang  up  a friendship  that  may  help 
us  yet. 

For  while  we  roam’d  along  the  dreary 
coast, 

And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by 
piece 

I learnt  the  dearier  story  of  his  life  ; 
i And,  tho’  he  loved  and  honor’d  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady 
made  # 

Dwelt  in  his  fancy  : did  he  know  her 
worth, 

Her  beauty  even  ? should  he  not  be 
taught, 

Ev’n  by  the  price  that  others  setupon  it, 
The  value  of  that  jewel  he  had  to 
i guard  ? 

Suddenly  came  her  notice  and  we 
past, 

I with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind, 
the  soul : 

That  makes  the  sequel  pure ; tho’ 
some  of  us 

Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  I : and  yet  I say  the  bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however 
sweet. 


But  if  my  neighbor  whistle  answers 
him  — 

What  matter  ? there  are  others  in  the 
wood. 

Yet  when  I saw  her  (and  I thought  him 
crazed, 

Tho’  not  with  such  a craziness  as  needs 

A cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes 
of  hers  — 

Oh ! such  dark  eyes  ! and  not  her  eyes 
alone, 

But  all  from  these  to  where  she  touch’d 
on  earth, 

For  such  a craziness  as  Julian’s  look’d 

No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 

To  greet  us,  her  young  hero  in  hei 
arms ! 

“ Kiss  him,”  she  said.  “ You  gave  me 
life  again. 

He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 

His  other  father  you ! Kiss  him,  and 
then 

Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be  J ulian  too.” 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  iroken  heart ! 
his  own 

Sent  such  a flame  into  his  face,  1 
knew 

Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him 
there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to 

g0’  r • , 

And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying 
him 

By  that  great  love  they  both  had 
borne  the  dead, 

To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with 
him 

Before  he  left  the  land  for  evermore  ; 

And  then  to  friends  — they  were  not 
many  — who  lived 

Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land 
of  his, 

And  bade  them  to  a banquet  of  fare- 
wells. 

And  Julian  made  a solemn  feast:  I 
never 

Sat  at  a costlier  : for  all  round  his  hal) 


548 


THE  TO  FEE’S  TALE. 


From  column  on  to  column,  as  in  a 
wood, 

Not  such  as  here  — an  equatorial  one, 
Great  garlands  swung  and  blossom'd; 
and  beneath, 

Heirlooms,  and  ancient  miracles  of 
Art, 

Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that,  Heaven 
knows  when, 

Had  suck'd  the  fire  of  some  forgotten 
sun, 

And  kept  it  thro'  a hundred  ^ears  of 
gloom, 

Yet  glowingin  a heart  of  ruby  — cups 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round 
in  gold  — 

Others  of  glass  as  costly  — some  with 
gems 

Movable  and  resettable  at  will, 

And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value  — 
Ah  heavens ! 

Why  need  I tell  you  all  ? — suffice  to 
say 

That  whatsoever  such  a house  as  his, 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
Was  brought  before  the  guest:  and 
they,  the  guests, 

Wonder’d  at  some  strange  light  in 
Julian’s  eyes 

(I  told  you  that  he  had  his  golden 
hour), 

And  such  a feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seem'd 
To  such  a time,  to  Lionel’s  loss  and  his 
And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a 
land 

He  never  would  revisit,  such  a feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev’n 
than  rich, 

But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the 
hall 

Two  great  funereal  curtains,  looping 
down, 

Parted  a little  ere  they  met  the  floor, 
About  a picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the 
frame. 

And  just  above  the  parting  was  a 
lamp : 

So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with 
night 


Seem’d  stepping  out  of  darkness  with 
a smile. 

Well  then — our  solemn  feast — we 
ate  and  drank, 

And  might  — the  wines  being  of  such 
nobleness  — 

Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes, 

And  something  weird  and  wild  about 
it  all  : 

What  was  it?  for  our  lover  seldom 
spoke, 

Scarce  touch'd  the  meats;  but  ever 
and  anon 

A priceless  goblet  with  a priceless  wine 

Arising,  show’d  he  drank  beyond  his 
use ; 

And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end, 
he  said: 

“ There  is  a custom  in  the  Orient, 
friends  — 

I read  of  it  in  Persia  — when  a man 

Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him, 
he  brings 

And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  ac- 
counts 

Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 

Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 

This  custom " 

« Pausing  here  a moment,  all 

The  guests  broke  in  upon  him  with 
meeting  hands 

And  cries  about  the  banquet  — “ Beau- 
tiful ! 

Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a 
feast  ? " 

The  lover  answer'd,  “ There  is  more 
than  one 

Here  sitting  who  desires  it.  Laud  me 
not 

Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the 
close. 

This  custom  steps  yet  further  when 
the  guest 

Is  loved  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost. 

For  after  he  hath  shown  him  gems  or 
gold, 

He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  ricfc 
guise 


THE  LOVE HS  TALE . 


549 


rhat  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as 
these, 

The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his 
heart  — 

0 my  heart’s  lord,  would  I could 
show  you,’  h & says, 

Ev’n  my  heart  too.’  And  I propose 
to-night 

To  show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my 
heart, 

And  my  heart  too. 

“ But  solve  me  first  a doubt. 

[ knew  a man,  nor  many  years  ago ; 

He  had  a faithful  servant,  one  who 
loved 

His  master  more  than  all  on  earth 
beside. 

He  falling  sick,  and  seeming  close  on 
death, 

His  master  would  not  wait  until  he 
died, 

But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from 
the  door, 

And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to 
die. 

[ knew  another,  not  so  long  ago, 

Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took 
him  home, 

And  fed,  and  cherish’d  him,  and  saved 
his  life. 

[ ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master 
claim 

His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to  ? 
him 

Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved 
his  life  ? ” 

This  question,  so  flung  down  before 
the  guests. 

And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at 
length 

When  some  were  doubtful  how  the 
law  would  hold, 

Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 

To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of 
phrase. 

And  he  beginning  languidly  — his  loss 

Weigh’d  on  him  yet  — but  warming 
as  he  went. 


Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass 
it  by, 

Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived, 

By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  grateful- 
ness, 

The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was 
due 

All  to  the  saver  — adding,  with  a 
smile, 

The  first  for  many  weeks  — a semi- 
smile 

As  at  a strong  conclusion  — “body 
and  soul 

And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his 
will.” 

Then  Julian  made  a secret  sign  to 
me 

To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them 
all. 

And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she 
came, 

And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  her- 
self 

Is  lovelier  than  all  others  — on  her 
head 

A diamond  circlet,  and  from  under 
this 

A veil,  that  seemed  no  more  than 
gilded  air, 

Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern 
gauze 

With  seeds  of  gold  — so,  with  that 
grace  of  hers, 

Slow-moving  as  a wave  against  the 
wind, 

That  flings  a mist  behind  it  in  the 
sun  — 

And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty 
babe, 

The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was 
crown’d 

With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself  — 

And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the 
jewels 

Of  many  generations  of  his  house 

Sparkled  and  flash’d,  for  he  had 
decked  them  out 

As  for  a solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 

So  she  came  in  : — lam  long  in  telling 
it, 

I never  yet  beheld  a thing  so  strange, 


550 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Sad,  sweet,  and  strange  together  — 
floated  in  — 

While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amaze- 
ment rose  — 

And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle 
hall, 

Before  the  hoard,  there  paused  and 
stood,  her  breast 

Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her 
feet, 

Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 

But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights 
nor  feast 

Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men  ; 
who  cared 

Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 

And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and 
jewell’d  world 

About  him,  look’d,  as  he  is  like  to 
prove, 

When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he 
saw. 

“My  guests,”  said  Julian;  “you 
are  honor’d  now 

Ev’n  to  the  uttermost : in  her  behold 

Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beau- 
tiful. 

Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to 
me.” 

Then  waving  us  a sign  to  seat  our- 
selves, 

Led  his  dear  lady  to  a chair  of  state. 

And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 

Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 

Thrice  in  a second,  felt  him  tremble 
too, 

And  heard  him  muttering,  “ So  like, 
so  like ; 

She  never  had  a sister.  I knew  none. 

Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  — O God, 
so  like ! ” 

And  then  he  suddenly  ask’d  her  if 
she  were. 

She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down, 
and  was  dumb. 

And  then  some  other  question’d  if  she 
came 

From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did 
not  speak. 

Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers : but 
she 


To  all  their  queries  answer’d  not  a 
word, 

Which  made  the  amazement  more, 
till  one  of  them 

Said,  shuddering,  “Her  spectre  !,li 
But  his  friend 

Keplied,  in  half  a whisper,  “Not  at 
least 

The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken 
to. 

Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 

Prove,  as  I almost  dread  to  find  her, 
dumb]” 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer’d 
all: 

“ She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you 
see 

That  faithful  servant  whom  we  spoke 
about, 

Obedient  to  her  second  master  now ; 

Which  will  not  last.  I have  here  to- 
night a guest 

So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and 
loss  — 

What ! shall  I bind  him  more  ? in  his 
behalf, 

Shall  I exceed  the  Persian,  giving 
him 

That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest 
to  me, 

Not  only  showing  ? and  he  himself 
pronounced 

That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to 
give. 

“ Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all 
of  you 

Not  to  break  in  on  what  I say  by 
word 

Or  whisper,  while  1 show  you  all  my 
heart.” 

And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 

As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 

The  passionate  moment  would  not 
suffer  that  — 

Past  thro’  his  visions  to  the  burial 
thence 

Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his 
own  hall ; 

And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  al 
his  guests 


THE  LOVE HS  TALE. 


I 


Jnce  more  as  by  enchantment;  all 
but  he, 

Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,  but  fell 
again, 

\nd  sat  as  if  in  chains  — to  whom  he 
said : 

“ Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for 
your  wife ; 

And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake, 

And  tho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you 
lost, 

Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 

Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring 
her  back  : 

[ leave  this  land  for  ever."  Here  he 
ceased. 

Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one 
hand, 

And  bearing  one  arm  the  noble 
babe, 

He  slowly  brought  them  both  to 
Lionel. 

And  there  the  widower  husband  and 
dead  wife 

Rush'd  each  at  each  with  a cry,  that 
rather  .eem'd 


For  some  new  death  than  for  a life 
renew’d ; 

Whereat  the  very  babe  began  to  wail ; 

At  once  they  turn'd,  and  caught  and 
brought  him  in 

To  their  charm'd  circle,  and,  half  kill- 
ing him 

With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and 
claspt  again. 

But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  him- 
self 

From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a 
face 

All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of 
life. 

And  love,  and  boundless  thanks  — 
the  sight  of  this 

So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turn- 
ing to  me 

And  saying,  “ It  is  over : let  us 
go  " — 

There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the 
doors  — 

We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mount- 
ing these 

He  past  for  ever  from  his  native  land ; 

And  I with  him,  my  Julian,  back  to 
mine. 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


TO 

ALFRED  TENNYSON, 

MY  GRANDSON. 


Golden-hair’d  Ally  whose  name  is  one  with  mine, 
Crazy  with  laughter  and  babble  and  earth’s  new  wine, 
Now  that  the  flower  of  a year  and  a half  is  thine, 

O little  blossom,  O mine,  and  mine  of  mine, 

Glorious  poet  who  never  hast  written  a line, 

Laugh,  for  the  name  at  the  head  of  my  verse  is  thine. 
May’st  thou  never  be  wrong’d  by  the  name  that  is  mine  ! 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 

(in  the  isle  of  wight.) 

I. 

* Wait  a little,”  you  say,  “you  are 
sure  it’ll  all  come  right,” 

But  the  boy  was  born  i’  trouble,  an’ 
looks  so  wan  an’  so  white  : 

Wait ! an’  once  I ha’  waited  — I hadn’t 
to  wait  for  long. 

Now  I wait,  wait,  wait  for  Harry.  — 
No,  no,  you  are  doing  me 
wrong ! 

Harry  and  I were  married:  the  boy 
can  hold  up  his  head, 

The  boy  was  born  in  wedlock,  but 
after  my  man  was  dead ; 

I ha’  work’d  for  him  fifteen  years,  an’ 
I work  an’  I wait  to  the  end. 

I am  all  alone  in  the  world,  an’  you 
are  my  only  friend. 

ii. 

Doctor,  if  you  can  wait,  I’ll  tell  you 
the  tale  o’  my  life. 

When  Harry  an’  I were  children,  he 
call’d  me  his  own  little  wife ; 


I was  happy  when  I was  with  him,  an1 
sorry  when  he  was  away, 

An’  when  we  play’d  together,  I loved 
him  better  than  play  ; 

He  workt  me  the  daisy  chain  — he 
made  me  the  cowslip  ball, 

He  fought  the  boys  that  were  rude, 
an’  I loved  him  better  than  all. 

Passionate  girl  tho’  I was,  an’  often  at 
home  in  disgrace, 

I never  could  quarrel  with  Harry  — I 
had  but  to  look  in  his  face. 
hi. 

There  was  a farmer  in  Dorset  of 
Harry’s  kin,  that  had  need 

Of  a good  stout  lad  at  his  farm ; he 
sent,  an’  the  father  agreed ; 

So  Harry  was  bound  to  the  Dorsetshire 
farm  for  years  an’  for  years ; 

I walked  with  him  down  to  the  quay, 
poor  lad,  an’  we  parted  in  tears. 

The  boat  was  beginning  to  move,  we 
heard  them  a-ringing  the  bell, 

“I’ll  never  love  any  but  you,  God 
bless  you,  my  own  little  Nell.” 

IV. 

I was  a child,  an’  he  was  a child,  an 
he  came  to  harm ; 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 


553 


There  was  a girl,  a hussy,  that  workt 
with  him  up  at  the  farm, 

One  had  deceived  her  an’  left  her 
alone  with  her  sin  an* her  shame, 
And  so  she  was  wicked  with  Harry;  the 
girl  was  the  most  to  blame. 

v. 

And  years  went  over  till  I that  was 
little  had  grown  so  tall, 

The  men  would  say  of  the  maids,  “ Our 
Nelly’s  the  flower  of  ’em  all.” 

I didn’t  take  heed  o’  them,  but  I taught 
myself  all  I could 

To  make  a good  wife  for  Harry,  when 
Harry  came  home  for  good. 

VI. 

Often  I seem’d  unhappy,  and  often  as 
happy  too, 

For  I heard  it  abroad  in  the  fields  “ I’ll 
never  love  any  but  you  ” ; 

“I'll  never  love  any  but  you”  the 
morning  song  of  the  lark, 

“ I’ll  never  love  any  but  you”  the  night- 
ingale’s hymn  in  the  dark. 

VII. 

And  Harry  came  home  at  last,  but  he 
look’d  at  me  sidelong  and  shy, 

J Yext  me  a bit,  till  he  told  me  that  so 
many  years  had  gone  by, 

I had  grown  so  handsome  and  tall  — 
that  I might  ha’  forgot  him 
somehow  — 

]For  he  thought  — there  were  other 
lads  — he  was  fear’d  to  look 
at  me  now. 

VIII. 

Hard  was  the  frost  in  the  field,  we  were 
married  o’  Christmas  day, 
Married  among  the  red  berries,  an’  all 
as  merry  as  May  — 
i Those  were  the  pleasant  times,  my 
house  an’  my  man  were  my 
pride, 

We  seem’d  like  ships  i’  the  Channel 
a-sailing  with  wind  an’  tide. 


IX. 

But  work  was  scant  in  the  Isle,  tho’ 
he  tried  the  villages  rounds 
So  Harry  went  over  the  Solent  to  see 
if  work  could  be  found ; 

An’  he  wrote,  “I  ha’  six  weeks’  work, 
little  wife,  so  far  as  I know ; 

I’ll  come  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  an’ 
kiss  you  before  I go.” 

x. 

So  I set  to  righting  the  house,  for 
wasn’t  he  coming  that  day  ? 
An’  I hit  on  an  old  deal-box  that  was 
push’d  in  a corner  away, 

It  was  full  of  old  odds  an’  ends,  an’  a 
letter  along  wi’  the  rest, 

I had  better  ha’  put  my  naked  hand 
in  a hornets’  nest. 

XI. 

“ Sweetheart  ” — this  was  the  letter  — 
this  was  the  letter  I read  — 
“You  promised  to  find  me  work  near 
you,  an’  I wish  I was  dead  — 
Didn’t  you  kiss  me  an’  promise  ? you 
haven’t  done  it,  my  lad, 

An’  I almost  died  o’  your  going  away, 
an’  I wish  that  I had.” 

XII. 

I too  wish  that  I had  — in  the  pleasant 
times  that  had  past, 

Before  I quarrell’d  with  Harry — my 
quarrel  — the  first  an’  the  last. 

XIII. 

For  Harry  came  in,  an’  I flung  him 
the  letter  that  drove  me  wild, 
An’  he  told  it  me  all  at  once,  as  simple 
as  any  child, 

“ What  can  it  matter,  my  lass,  what  I 
did  wi’  my  single  life  ? 

I ha’  been  as  true  to  you  as  ever  a 
man  to  his  wife  ; 

An’  she  wasn’t  one  o’  the  worst.” 
“ Then,”  I said,  “ I’m  none  o’  the 
best.” 

An’  he  smiled  at  me,  “ Ain’t  you,  my 
love  ? Come,  come,  little  wife> 
let  it  rest ! 


554 


RIZPAH. 


The  man  isn’t  like  the  woman,  no 
need  to  make  such  a stir.” 

But  he  anger’d  me  all  .the  more,  an’  I 
said  “ Youwerekeepingwithher, 
When  I was  a-loving  you  all  along  an’ 
the  same  as  before.” 

An’  he  didn’t  speak  for  a while,  an’ 
he  anger’d  me  more  and  more. 
Then  he  patted  my  hand  in  his  gentle 
way,  “ Let  bygones  be  ! ” 

“ Bygones!  you  kept  yours  hush’d,”  I 
said,  “ when  you  married  me  ! 
By-gones  ma’  be  come-agains;  an’  she 
— in  her  shame  an’  her  sin  — 
You’ll  have  her  to  nurse  my  child,  if 
I die  o’  my  lying  in  ! 

You’ll  make  her  its  second  mother!  I 
hate  her  — an’  I hate  you ! ” 
Ah,  Harry,  my  man,  you  had  better 
ha’  beaten  me  black  an’  blue 
Than  ha’  spoken  as  kind  as  you  did, 
when  I were  so  crazy  wi’  spite, 

“ Wait  a little,  my  lass,  I am  sure  it  ’ill 
all  come  right.” 

XIV. 

An’  he  took  three  turns  in  the  rain, 
an’  I watch’d  him,  an’  when  he 
came  in 

1 felt  that  my  heart  was  hard,  he  was 
all  wet  thro’  to  the  skin, 

An’  I never  said  “ off  wi’  the  wet,”  I 
never  said  “ on  wi’  the  dry,” 

So  1 knew  my  heart  was  hard,  when 
he  came  to  bid  me  goodbye. 

“ You  said  that  you  hated  me,  Ellen, 
but  that  isn’t  true,  you  know ; 

I am  going  to  leave  you  a bit  — you’ll 
kiss  me  before  I go  1 ” 

xv. 

€t Going!  you’re  going  to  her  — kiss 
her — if  you  will,”  I said,  — 

I was  near  my  time  wi’  the  boy,  I must 
ha’  been  light  i’  my  head  — 

“ I had  sooner  be  cursed  than  kiss’d ! ” 
— I didn’t  know  well  what  I 
meant, 

But  I turn’d  my  face  from  him,  an’  he 
turn’d  his  face  an’  he  went. 


XVI. 

And  then  he  sent  me  a letter,  “I’ve 
gotten  my  work  to  do ; 

You  wouldn’t  kiss  me,  my  lass,  an’  I 
never  loved  any  but  you ; 

I am  sorry  for  all  the  quarrel  an’  sorry 
for  what  she  wrote, 

I ha’  six  weeks’  work  in  Jersey  an’  go 
to-night  by  the  boat.” 

XVII. 

An’  the  wind  began  to  rise,  an’  I 
thought  of  him  out  at  sea, 

An’  I felt  I had  been  to  blame;  he 
was  always  kind  to  me. 

“Wait  i little,  my  lass,  I am  sure  it 
’ill  all  come  right  ” — 

An’  the  boat  went  down  that  night  — 
the  boat  went  down  that  night. 


RIZPAH. 

17—. 

i. 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind 
over  land  and  sea  — 

And  Willy’s  voice  in  the  wind,  “ O 
mother,  come  out  to  me.” 

Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when 
he  knows  that  I cannot  go  ? 

For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and 
the  full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 

ii. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear;  they 
would  spy  us  out  of  the  town. 

The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the 
storm  rushing  over  the  down, 

When  I cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but 
am  led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 

And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I 
find  myself  drenched  with  the 
rain. 

hi. 

Anything  fallen  again  ? nay  — what 
was  there  left  to  fall  ? 

I have  taken  them  home,  I have  num 
ber’d  the  bones,  I have  hidden 
them  all. 


RIZPAH. 


555 


What  am  I saying  ? and  what  are  you  f 
do  you  come  as  a spy  ? 

Falls  ? what  falls  ? who  knows  ? As 
the  tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 

IY. 

Who  let  her  in?  how  long  has  she  been? 
you  — what  have  you  heard  ? 

Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  ? you  never 
have  spoken  a word. 

0 — to  pray  with  me  — yes  — a lady 

— none  of  their  spies  — 

But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart, 
and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 

v. 

Adi — you,  that  have  lived  so  soft, 
what  should  you  know  of  the 
night, 

The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and 
the  bitter  frost  and  the  fright  ? 

1 have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep  — 

you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 

I have  gather’d  my  baby  together  — 
and  now  you  may  go  your  way. 

VI. 

Nay  — for  it’s  kind  of  you,  Madam,  to 
sit  by  an  old  dying  wife. 

But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I 
have  only  an  hour  of  life. 

1 kiss’d  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before 
he  went  out  to  die. 

,rrhey  dared  me  to  do  it,”  he  said, 
and  he  never  has  told  me  a lie. 

I whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard 
once  when  he  was  but  a child  — 

“ The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,”  he 
said ; he  was  always  so  wild  — 

And  idle  — and  couldn’t  be  idle — my 
Willy  — he  never  could  rest. 

The  King  should  have  made  him  a 
soldier,  he  would  have  been 
one  of  his  best. 

VII. 

But  he  lived  with  a lot  of  wild  mates, 
and  they  never  would  let  him 
be  good ; 

They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the 
mail,  and  he  swore  that  he 
would : 


And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one 
purse,  and  when  all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows  — I’ll 
none  of  it,  said  my  son. 

VIII. 

I came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the 
lawyers.  I told  them  my  tale, 
God’-s  own  truth  — but  they  kill’d  him, 
they  kill’d  him  for  robbing  the 
mail. 

They  hang’d  him  in  chains  for  a show 
we  had  always  borne  a good 
name  — 

To  be  hang’d  for  a thief  — and  then 
put  away  — isn’t  that  enough 
shame  ? 

Dust  to  dust  — low  down  — let  us  hide ! 

but  they  set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could 
stare  at  him,  passing  by. 

God  ’ill  pardon  the  hell-black  raven 
and  horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer 
who  kill’d  him  and  hang’d  him 
there. 

IX. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.  I had 
bid  him  my  last  goodbye ; 

They  had  fasten’d  the  door  of  his  cell 
“ O mother ! ” I heard  him  cry 
I couldn’t  get  back  tho’  I tried,  he  had 
something  further  to  say, 

And  now  I never  shall  know  it  The 
jailer  forced  me  away. 

x. 

Then  since  I couldn’t  but  hear  that 
cry  of  my  boy  that  was  dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up  : they 
fasten’d  me  down  on  my  bed. 

“ Mother,  O mother ! ” — he  call’d  in  the 
dark  to  me  year  after  year  — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me 
— you  know  that  I couldn’t  but 
hear ; 

And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I had 
grown  so  stupid  and  still 
They  let  me  abroad  again  — but  the 
creatures  had  worked  their  will. 


556 


RIZPA&. 


XI. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone 
of  my  bone  was  left  — 

I stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers  — 
and  you,  will  you  call  it  a 
theft  1 — 

My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd 
me,  the  bones  that  had  laughed 
and  had  cried  — 

Theirs  ? O no ! they  are  mine  — not 
theirs  — they  had  moved  in  my 
side. 

XII. 

Do  you  think  I was  scared  by  the 
bones  ? I kiss’d  ’em,  I buried 
’em  all  — 

I can’t  dig  deep,  I am  old  — in  the 
night  by  the  churchyard  wall. 

My  Willy  ’ill  rise  up  whole  when  the 
trumpet  of  judgment  ’ill  sound, 

But  I charge  you  never  to  say  that  1 
laid  him  in  holy  ground. 


XIII. 

They  would  scratch  him  up  — they 
would  hang  him  again  on  the 
cursed  tree. 

Sin  ? O yes  — we  are  sinners,  I know 

— let  all  that  be, 

And  read  me  a Bible  verse  of  the 
Lord’s  good  will  toward  men  — 
“ Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the 
Lord  ” — let  me  hear  it  again  ; 
“ Full  of  compassion  and  mercy  — 
long-suffering.”  Yes,  O yes  ! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder 

— the  Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He’ll  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except 

for  the  worst  of  the  worst, 

And  the  first  may  be  last — I have 
heard  it  in  church  — and  the 
last  may  be  first. 

Suffering  — O long-suffering  — yes,  as 
the  Lord  must  know, 

Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the 
wind  and  the  shower  and  the 
mow. 


XIV. 

Heard,  have  you  ? what  ? they  have 
told  you  he  never  repented  his 
sin. 

How  do  they  know  it  ? are  they  his 
mother  ? are  you  of  his  kin  ? 

Heard!  have  you  ever  heard,  when 
the  storm  on  the  downs  began, 

The  wind  that  ’ill  wail  like  a child  and 
the  sea  that  ’ill  moan  like  a 
man  ? 


xv. 

Election,  Election  and  Reprobation  — 
it’s  all  very  well. 

But  I go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I 
shall  not  find  him  in  Hell. 

For  I cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that 
the  Lord  has  look’d  into  my 
care, 

And  He  means  me  I’m  sure  to  be  happy 
with  Willy,  I know  not  where, 


xvi. 

And  if  he  be  lost  — but  to  save  my  soul, 
that  is  all  your  desire  : 

Do  you  think  that  I care  for  my  soul 
if  my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 

I have  been  with  God  in  the  dark  — go, 
go,  you  may  leave  me  alone  — 

You  never  have  borne  a child  — you 
are  just  as  hard  as  a ston^ 


XVII. 

Madam,  I beg  your  pardon  ! I think 
that  you  mean  to  be  kind, 

But  I cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 
Willy’s  voice  in  the  wind  — 
The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright  — he 
used  but  to  call  in  the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the 
church  and  not  from  the  gibbet 
— for  hark  ! 

Nay  — you  can  hear  it  yourself  — it  is 
coming  — shaking  the  walls  — 

Willy  — the  moon’s  in  a cloud 

Good  night.  I am  going.  Hi 
calls. 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


' 55 7 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 

i. 

Taait  till  our  Sally  coorns  in,  fur 
thou  mun  a’  sights 1 to  tell, 
h,  but  I be  maain  glad  to  seea  tha  sa 
’arty  an’  well. 

Cast  awaay  an  a disolut  land  wi’  a 
vartical  soon  2 ! ” 

trange  fur  to  goa  fur  to  think  what 
saailors  a’  seean  an’  a’  doon  ; 
Summat  to  drink  — sa’  ’ot  ? ” I ’a 
nowt  but  Adam’s  wine  : 

That’s  the  ’eat  o’  this  little  ’ill-side  to 
the  ’eat  o’  the  line  ? 

ii. 

What’s  i’  tha  bottle  a-stanning 
theer  ? ” I’ll  tell  tha.  Gin. 
ut  if  thou  wants  thy  grog,  tha  mun 
goa  fur  it  down  to  the  inn. 
aay  — fur  I be  maan-glad,  but  thaw 
tha  was  iver  sa  dry, 
hougits  naw  gin  fro’  the  bottle  theer, 
an’  I’ll  tell  tha  why. 

hi. 

!ea  an’  thy  sister  was  married,  when 
wur  it  ? back-end  o’  June, 
en  year  sin’,  and  wa  ’greed  as  well 
as  a fiddle  i’  tune  : 
could  fettle  and  clump  owd  booots 
and  shoes  wi’  the  best  on  ’em  all, 
s fur  as  fro’  Thursby  thurn  hup  to 
Harmsby  and  Hutterby  Hall. 
re  was  busy  as  beeas  i’  the  bloom  an’ 
as  ’appy  as  ’art  could  think, 
n’  then  the  babby  wur  burn,  and 
then  I taakes  to  the  drink. 

1 The  vowels  ai,  pronounced  separately 
ough  in  the  closest  conjunction,  best  render 
b sound  of  the  long  i and  y in  this  dialect, 
it  since  such  words  as  craiin ’,  daiin',  whai , 
(I),  etc.,  look  awkward  except  in  a page 
express  phonetics,  I have  thought  it  better 
leave  the  simple  i and  y , and  trust  that  my 
iders  will  give  them  the  broader  pronunci- 
on. 

{ The  oo  short,  as  in  “ wood.** 


IV. 

An’  I wean  t gaainsaay  it,  my  lad,  thaw 
I be  hafe  shaamed  on  it  now, 
We  could  sing  a good  song  at  the 
Plow,  we  could  sing  a good  song 
at  the  Plow ; 

Thaw  once  of  a frosty  night  I slither’d 
an’  hurted  my  huck,1 
An’  I coom’d  neck-an-crop  soomtimes 
slaape  down  i’  the  squad  an’ 
the  muck : 

An’  once  I fowt  wi’  the  Taailor  — not 
hafe  ov  a man,  my  lad  — 

Fur  he  scrawm’d  an’  scratted  my  faace 
like  a cat,  an’  it  maade  ’er  sa 
mad 

That  Sally  she  turn’d  a tongue-bang- 
er, 2 an’  raated  ma,  4 Sottin’  thy 
braains 

Guzzlin’  an’  soakin’  an’  smoakin’  an’ 
hawmin’  3 about  i’  the  laanes, 
Soa  sow-droonk  that  tha  doesn  not 
touch  thy  ’at  to  the  Squire ; ’ 
An’  I loook’d  cock-eyed  at  my  noase 
an’  I seead  ’im  a-gitten’  o’  fire  ; 
But  sin’  I wur  hallus  i’  liquor  an’  hal- 
lus  as  droonk  as  a king, 

Foalks’  coostom  flitted  awaay  like  a 
kite  wi’  a brokken  string. 


v. 

An’  Sally  she  wesh’d  foalks’  cloaths 
to  keep  the  wolf  fro’  the  door, 
Eh  but  the  moor  she  riled  me,  she 
druv  me  to  drink  the  moor, 
Fur  I fun’,  when  ’er  back  wur  turn’d, 
wheer  Sally’s  owd  stockin’  wur 
’id, 

An’  I grabb’d  the  munny  she  maade, 
and  I wear’d  it  o’  liquor,  I did. 

VI. 

An*  one  night  I cooms  ’oam  like  a 
bull  gotten  loose  at  a faair, 

An’  she  wur  a-waaitin’  fo’mma,  an’ 
cryin’  and  tearin’  ’er  ’aair, 

An’  I tummled  athurt  the  craadle  an’ 
swear’d  as  I’d  break  ivry  stick 

1 Hip.  2 Scold.  3 Lounging. 


THE  jlV OK  THERE  COBBLER . 


55? 


’ furnitur  'ere  i’  the  ’ouse,  an’  I gied 
our  Sally  a kick. 

An’  I mash’d  the  taabies  an’  chairs, 
an’  she  an’  the  babby  beal’d, 1 
Fur  I knaw’d  naw  moor  what  I did 
nor  a mortal  beast  o’  the  feald. 

VII. 

An’  when  I waaked  i’  the  murnin’  I 
seead  that  our  Sally  went 
laamed 

Cos’  o’  the  kick  as  I gied  ’er,  an’  I wur 
dreadful  ashaamed ; 

An’  Sally  wur  sloomy 2 an’  draggle 
taail’d  in  an  owd  turn  gown, 

An’  the  babby’s  faace  wurn’t  wesh’d 
and  the  ’ole  ’ouse  hupside  down. 

VIII. 

An’  then  I minded  our  Sally  sa  pratty 
an’  neat  an’  sweeat, 

Straat  as  a pole  an’  clean  as  a flower 
fro’  ’ead  to  feeat : 

An’  then  I minded  the  fust  kiss  I gied 
’er  by  Thursby  thurn  ; 

Theer  wur  a lark  a-singin’  ’is  best  of 
a Sunday  at  murn, 

Couldn’t  see  ’im,  we  ’eard  ’im  a- 
mountin’  oop  ’igher  an’  ’igher, 
An’  then  ’e  turn’d  to  the  sun,  an’  ’e 
shined  like  a sparkle  o’  fire. 

“ Doesn’t  tha  see  ’im,”  she  axes,  “ fur 
1 can  see  ’im  ? ” an’  I 
Seead  nobbut  the  smile  o’  the  sun  as 
danced  in  ’er  pratty  blue  eye  ; 
An’  I says  “ I mun  gie  tha  a kiss,”  an’ 
Sally  says  “Noa,  thou  moant,” 
But  I gied’er  a kiss,  an’  then  anoother, 
an’  Sally  says  “ doant ! ” 

IX. 

An’  when  we  coom’d  into  Meeatin’,  at 
fust  she  wur  all  in  a tew, 

But,  arter,  we  sing’d  the  ’ymn  togither 
like  birds  on  a beugh  ; 

An’  Muggins  ’e  preach’d  o’  Hell-fire 
an’  the  loove  o’  God  fur  men, 
*n  then  upo’  coomin’  awaay  Sally 
gied  me  a kiss  ov  ’ersen. 

1 Bellowed,  cried  out. 

2 Sluggish,  out  of  spirit®. 


X. 

Heer  wur  a fall  fro’  a kiss  to  a kick 
like  Saatan  as  fell 

Down  out  o’  heaven  i’  Hell-fire  — thaw 
theer’s  naw  drinkin’  i’  Hell ; 
Mea  fur  to  kick  our  Sally  as  kep  the 
wolf  fro’  the  door, 

All  along  o’  the  drink,  fur  I loov’d  ’ei 
as  well  as  afoor. 

XI. 

Sa  like  a graat  num-cumpus  I blub 
ber’d  awaay  o’  the  bed  — 

“ Weant  niver  do  it  naw  moor;  ” 

an’  Sally  loookt  up  an’  she  said 
“ I’ll  upowd  it  1 tha  weant ; thou’r 
like  the  rest  o’  the  men, 
Thou’ll  goa  sniffin’  about  the  tap  til 
tha  does  it  agean. 

Theer’s  thy  hennemy,  man,  an’  . 

knaws,  as  knaws  tha  sa  well, 
That,  if  tha  seeas  ’im  an’  smells  ’in 
tha’ll  f oiler  ’im  slick  into  Hell/ 

XII. 

“Naay,”  says  I,  “fur  I weant  goi 
sniffin’  about  the  tap.” 

“ Weant  tha  ? ” she  says,  an’  my  sen 
thowt  i’  mysen  “ mayhap.” 

“ Noa ; ” an’  I started  awaay  like  : 

shot,  an’  down  to  the  Hinn, 
An’  I browt  what  tha  seeas  stannin 
theer,  yon  big  black  bottle  c 
gin. 

XIII. 

“ That  caps  owt,”  2 says  Sally,  an’  sa\ 
she  begins  to  cry, 

But  I puts  it  inter  ’er  ’ands  ’an  I say 
to  ’er,  “ Sally,”  says  I, 

“ Stan’  ’im  theer  i’  the  naiime  o’  th 
Lord  an’  the  power  ov  ’i 
Grajice, 

Stan’  ’im  theer,  fur  I’ll  loobk  nr 
hennemy  strait  i’  the  faace, 
Stan’  ’im  theer  i’  the  winder,  an’  le 
ma  loook  at  ’im  then, 

’E  seeams  naw  moor  nor  watter,  ar 
’e’s  the  Divil’s  oan  sen.” 

1 I’ll  uphold  it. 

1 2 That’s  beyoud.  everything. 


THE  REVENGE. 


XIV. 

Vn'  I wur  down  i'  tha  mouth,  couldn't 
do  naw  work  an’  all, 

'ias ty  an'  snaggy  an’  shaaky,  an’ 
poonch'd  my  'and  wi’  the  hawl, 
Sut  she  wur  a power  o'  coomfut,  an' 
sattled  'ersen  o'  my  knee, 
in’  coaxd  an’  coodled  me  oop  till 
agean  I feel'd  mysen  free. 

XY. 

tn’  Sally  she  tell'd  it  about,  an'  foalk 
stood  a-gawmin'1  in, 
ts  thaw  it  wur  summat  bewitch’d 
istead  of  a quart  o’  gin ; 
in'  some  on  'em  said  it  wur  watter  — 
an'  I wur  chousin'  the  wife, 

?ur  I couldn't  'owd  'ands  off  gin,  wur 
it  nobbut  to  saave  my  life ; 
in’  blacksmith  'e  strips  me  the  thick 
ov  'is  airm,  an'  'e  shaws  it  to  me, 
Feeal  thou  this ! thou  can’t  graw 
this  upo’  watter  ! " says  he. 
k.n’  Doctor  'e  calls  o’  Sunday  an’  just 
as  candles  was  lit, 

Thou  moant  do  it,”  he  says,  “ tha 
mun  break  'im  off  bit  by  bit.” 
Thou’rt  but  a Methody-man,”  says 
Parson,  and  laays  down  'is  ’at, 
n'  'e  points  to  the  bottle  o'  gin,  “but 
I respecks  tha  fur  that ; ” 
n'  Squire,  his  oan  very  sen,  walks 
down  fro'  the  'All  to  see, 
n'.’e  spanks  'is  'and  into  mine,  “ fur 
I respecks  tha,”  says  'e  ; 
n'  coostom  agean  draw’d  in  like  a 
wind  fro'  far  an'  wide, 
nd  browt  me  the  booots  to  be  cob- 
bled fro'  hafe  the  coontryside. 

I 

XYI. 

n'  theer  'e  stans  an'  theer  'e  shall 
J stan  to  my  dying  daay ; 

'a  gotten  to  loov  'im  agean  in 
anoother  kind  of  a waay, 

’oud  on  'im,  like,  my  lad,  an’  I 
keeaps  'im  clean  an’  bright, 

>ovs  'im,  an'  roobs  'im,  an’  doosts 
;im,  an'  puts  'im  back  i'  the  light. 

1 Staring  vacantly. 


S® 


XVII. 

Wouldn't  a pint  a'  sarved  as  well  us  a 
quart  ? Naw  doubt : 

But  I liked  a bigger  feller  to  fight  wi’ 
an'  fowt  it  out. 

Fine  an’  nieller  'e  mun  be  by  this,  if  I 
cared  to  taaste,. 

But  I moant,  my  lad,  and  I weant,  fur 
I’d  feal  mysen  clean  dis- 
graaced. 

XVIII. 

An'  once  I said  to  the  Missis,  “ My 
lass,  when  1 cooms  to  die, 

Smash % the  bottle  to  smithers,  the 
Divil's  in  ’im,”  said  I. 

But  arter  I chaanged  my  mind,  an’  if 
Sally  be  left  aloah, 

I'll  hev  'im  a-buried  wi'mma  an'  taake 
’im  afoor  the  Throan. 

XIX. 

Coom  thou  ’eer  — yon  laady  a-steppin’ 
along  the  streeat, 

Doesn't  tha  knaw  'er  — sa  pratty,  an' 
feat,  an’  neat,  an'  sweeat  ? 

Look  at  the  cloaths  on  'er  back, 
thebbe  am  most  spick-span-new, 

An'  Tommy's  faace  be  as  fresh  as  a 
codlin  wesh'd  i’  the  dew. 

xx. 

'Ere  be  our  Sally  an'  Tommy,  an’  we 
be  a-goin  to  dine, 

Baacon  an'  taates,  an'  a beslings-pud- 
din'1  an'  Adam's  wine  ; 

But  if  tha  wants  ony  grog  tha  mun 
goii  fur  it  down  to  the  Ilinn, 

Fur  I weant  shed  a drop  on  'is  blood, 
noa,  not  fur  Sally’s  oan  kin. 


THE  REVENGE. 

A BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET. 

I. 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard 
Grenville  lay, 

And  a pinnance,  like  a flutter'd  bird, 
came  flying  from  far  away; 

1 A pudding  made  with  the  first  milk  of 
the  cow  after  calving. 


560 


THE  REVENGE . 


Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea ! we 
have  sighted  fifty-three  ! ” 

Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard : 

“ Tore  God  I am  no  coward ; 
Hut  I cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my 
ships  are  out  of  gear, 

And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.  I 
must  fly,  but  follow  quick. 

We  are  six  ships  of  the  line ; can  we 
fight  with  fifty-three  ? ” 

ii. 

Then  spake  Sir  "Richard  Grenville : “ I 
know  you  are  no  coward ; 

You  fly  them  for  a moment  to  fight 
with  them  again. 

But  I’ve  ninety  men  and  more  that 
are  lying  sick  ashore. 

I should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I 
left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the 
devildoms  of  Spain.” 

hi. 

So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five 
ships  of  war  that  day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a cloud  in  the 
silent  summer  heaven ; 

But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his 
sick  men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow, 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 

And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down 
below ; 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that 
they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 

T@  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for 
the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

iv. 

He  had  only  a hundred  seamen  to 
work  the  ship  and  to  fight, 

And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till 
the  Spaniard  came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving 
upon  the  weather  bow. 

“ Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly  ? 

Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die ! 


There’ll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the 
time  this  sun  be  set.” 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again  : “ We  be 
all  good  English  men. 

Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the 
children  of  the  devil, 

For  I never  turn’d  my  back  upon 
Don  or  devil  yet.” 

v. 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh’d,  anc 
we  roar’d  a hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  intc 
the  heart  of  the  foe, 

With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck 
and  her  ninety  sick  below ; 

For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  rigli 
and  half  to  the  left  were  seen, 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro 
the  long  sea-lane  between. 

VI. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look’c 
down  from  their  decks  am 
laugh’d, 

Thousands  of  their  seamen  mad< 
mock  at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay’d 
By  their  mountain-like  San  Phili] 
that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  witl 
her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  am 
we  stay’d. 

VII. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Phili] 
Lung  above  us  like  a cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 
From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 
And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  tw 
upon  the  starboard  lay. 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  fror 
them  all. 

VIII. 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  b* 
thought  herself  and  went 
Having  that  within  her  womb  tha 
had  left  her  ill  content ; 


THE  REVENGE. 


S6f 


And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 
they  fought  us  hand  hand, 
For  a dozen  times  tliev  came'  with 
their  pikes  and  tnusqueteers, 
And  a dozen  times  We  shook  ’em  off 
as  a dog  that  shakes  his  ears 
W hen  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the 
land. 

IX. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars 
came  out  far  over  the  summer 
sea, 

But  never  a moment  ceased  the  fight 
of  the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
their  high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
with  her  battle-thunder  and 
flame ; 

>hip  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
drewbackwith  her  dead  and  her 
shame. 

''or  some  were  sunk  and  many  were 
shatter’d,  and  so  could  fight  us 
no  more  — 

rod  of  battles,  was  ever  a battle  like 
this  in  the  world  before  ? 

x. 

'or  he  said  “ Fight  on  ! fight  on  ! ” 
'ho’  his  vessel  was  all  but  a wreck; 
md  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the 
short  summer  night  was  gone, 
Pith  a grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he 
had  left  the  deck, 

ut  a bullet  struck  him  that  was 
dressing  it  suddenly  dead, 
nd  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in 
the  side  and  the  head, 
nd  he  said  “ Fight  on  ! fight  on  ! ” 

t 

XI. 

i nd  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 
smiled  out  far  over  the  summer 
sea, 

nd  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken 
j sides  lay  round  us  all  in  a ring ; 
sit  they  dared  not  touch  us  again, 

} i'or  they  fear’d  that  we  still 
could  sting, 


So  they  watch’d  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 

Seeing  loriy  of  our  poor  hundred  were 
slain, 

And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim’d  for 
life 

In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and 
the  desperate  strife ; 

And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold 
were  most  of  them  stark  and 
cold, 

And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent, 
and  the  powder  was  all  of  it 
spent ; 

And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were 
lying  over  the  side  ; 

But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English 
pride, 

“ We  have  fought  such  a fight  for  a 
day  and  a night 

As  may  never  be  fought  again  ! 

We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  ! 
And  a day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 

We  die  — does  it  matter  when  ? 

Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner  — 
sink  her,  split  her  in  twain ! 

Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into 
the  hands  of  Spain ! ” 

XII. 

And  the  gunner  said  “Ay,  ay,”  but 
the  seamen  made  reply  : 

“We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise, 
if  we  yield,  to  let  us  go; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to 
strike  another  blow.” 

And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 
yielded  to  the  foe.  ’ 

XIII. 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their 
flagship  bore  him  then, 

Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old 
Sir  Richard  caught  at  last, 

And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with 
their  courtly  foreign  grace ; 

But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he 
cried : 


562 


THE  SISTERS . 


“ I have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  I 
like  a valiant  man  and  true ; 

I have  only  done  my  duty  as  a man  is 
bound  to  do  : 

With  a joyful  spirit  I Sir  Richard 
Grenville  die  ! " 

And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he 
died. 

XIV. 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had 
been  so  valiant  and  true, 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory 
of  Spain  so  cheap 

That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship 
and  his  English  few ; 

Was  he  devil  or  man  ? He  was  devil 
for  aught  they  knew, 

But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor 
down  into  the  deep, 

And  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with  a 
swarthier  alien  crew, 

And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and 
long'd  for  her  own  ; 

When  a wind  from  the  lands  they  had 
ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep, 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the 
weather  to  moan, 

And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a 
great  gale  blew, 

And  a wave  like  the  wave  that  is 
raised  by  an  earthquake  grew, 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their 
sails  and  their  masts  and  their 
flags, 

And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on 
the  shot-shatter’d  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went 
down  by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


THE  SISTERS. 

They  have  left  the  doors  ajar;  and 
by  their  clash, 

And  prelude  on  the  keys,  I know  the 
song, 

Their  favorite  — which  I call  “ The 
Tables  Turned." 

Evelyn  begins  it  0 diviner  Air." 


EVELYN. 

O diviner  Air, 

Thro’  the  heat,  the  drowth,  the  dust, 
the  glare, 

Ear  from  out  the  west  in  shadowing 
showers, 

Over  all  the  meadow  baked  and  bare. 
Making  fresh  and  fair 
All  the  bowers  and  the  flowers, 
Fainting  flowers,  faded  bowers, 

Over  all  this  weary  world  of  ours, 
Breathe,  diviner  Air ! 

A sweet  voice  that  — you  scarce  could 
better  that. 

Now  follows  Edith  echoing  Evelyn. 

EDITH. 

0 diviner  light, 

Thro'  the  cloud  that  roofs  our  noon 
with  night, 

Thro’  the  blotting  mist,  the  blinding 
showers, 

Far  from  out  a sky  for  ever  bright, 
Over  all  the  woodland’sfloodedbowers 
Over  all  the  meadow’s  drowning  flow' 
ers, 

Over  all  this  ruin’d  world  of  ours, 
Break,  diviner  light ! 

Marvellously  like,  their  voices  — ant 
themselves ! 

Tho’  one  is  somewhat  deeper  than  tin 
other, 

As  one  is  somewhat  graver  than  th< 
other  — • 

Edith  than  Evelyn.  Your  good  Uncle 
whom 

You  count  the  father  of  your  fortune 
longs 

For  this  alliance : let  me  ask  you  then 
Which  voice  most  takes  you  ? for 
do  not  doubt 

Being  a watchful  parent,  you  ar 
taken 

With  one  or  other  : tho'  sometimes 
fear 

You  may  be  flickering,  fluttering  in 
doubt 

Between  the  two — which  must  not  b 
— which  might 


THE  SISTERS. 


Be  death  to  one : they  both  are  beau- 
tiful : 

Evelyn  is  gayer,  wittier,  prettier,  says 

The  common  voice,  if  one  may  trust 
it : she  ? 

So ! but  the  paler  and  the  graver, 
Edith. 

Woo  her  and  gain  her  then:  no 
wavering,  boy ! 

The  graver  is  perhaps  the  one  for  you 

Who  jest  and  laugh  so  easily  and  so 
well. 

?or  love  will  go  by  contrast,  as  by 
likes. 

No  sisters  ever  prized  each  other 
more. 

Sot  so:  their  mother  and  her  sister 
loved 

Vtore  passionately  still. 

But  that  my  best 

\nd  oldest  friend,  your  Uncle,  wishes 
it, 

Ind  that  I know  you  worthy  every- 
way 

To  be  my  son,  I might,  perchance,  be 
loath 

To  part  them,  or  part  from  them  : and 
yet  one 

Should  marry,  or  all  the  broad  lands 
in  your  view 

rrom  this  bay  window  — which  our 
house  has  held 

?hree  hundred  years  — will  pass  col- 
laterally. 

My  father  with  a child  on  either 
knee, 

t hand  upon  the  head  of  either  child, 

•moothing  their  locks,  as  golden  as 
his  own 

Vere  silver,  “get  them  wedded  ” 
would  he  say. 

aid  once  my  prattling  Edith  ask’d 
him  “ why  ? ” 

, .y,  why  ? said  he,  “ for  why  should  I 
go  lame  ? ” 

'hen  told  them  of  his  wars,  and  of 
his  wound. 

or  see  — this  wine  — the  grape  from 
whence  it  flow’d 

jfas  blackening  on  the  slopes  of 
Portugal, 


When  that  brave  soldier,  down  the 
terrible  ridge 

Plunged  in  the  last  fierce  charge  at 
Waterloo, 

And  caught  the  laming  bullet.  He 
left  me  this, 

Which  yet  retains  a memory  of  its 
youth, 

As  I of  mine,  and  my  first  passion. 
Come ! 

Here’s  to  your  happy  union  with  my 
child ! 

Yet  must  you  change  your  name : 
no  fault  of  mine  ! 

You  say  that  you  can  do  it  as  willingly 

As  birds  make  ready  for  their  bridal- 
time 

By  change  of  feather:  for  all  that, 
my  boy, 

Some  birds  are  sick  and  sullen  when 
they  moult. 

An  old  and  worthy  name  ! but  mine 
that  stirr’d 

Among  our  civil  wars  and  earlier  too 

Among  the  Roses,  the  more  venerable. 

1 care  not  for  a name  — no  fault  of 
mine. 

Once  more  — a happier  marriage  than 
my  own  ! 

You  see  yon  Lombard  poplar  on  the 
plain. 

The  highway  running  by  it  leaves  a 
breadth 

Of  sward  to  left  and  right,  where,  long 
ago, 

One  bright  May  morning  in  a world 
of  song, 

I lay  at  leisure,  watching  overhead 

The  aerial  poplar  wave,  an  amber 
spire. 

I dozed  ; T woke.  An  open  landau- 
let 

Whirl’d  by,  which,  after  it  had  past 
me,  show’d 

Turning  my  way,  the  loveliest  face 
on  earth. 

The  face  of  one  there  sitting  opposite 

On  whom  I brought  a strange  unhay 
piness, 

That  time  I did  not  see. 


564 


THE  SISTERS. 


Love  at  first  sight 

May  seem  — with  goodly  rhyme  and 
reason  for  it  — 

Possible  — at  first  glimpse,  and  for  a 
face 

Gone  in  a moment  — strange.  Yet 
once,  when  first 

I came  on  lake  Llanberris  in  the  dark, 

A moonless  night  with  storm  — one 
lightning-fork 

Flash’d  out  the  lake ; and  tho’  I 
loiter’d  there 

The  full  day  after,  yet  in  retrospect 

That  less  than  momentary  thunder- 
sketch 

Of  lake  and  mountain  conquers  all 
the  day. 

The  Sun  himself  has  limn’d  the  face 
for  me. 

Not  quite  so  quickly,  no,  nor  half  as 
well. 

For  look  you  here  — the  shadows  are 
too  deep, 

And  like  the  critic’s  blurring  comment 
make 

The  veriest  beauties  of  the  work 
appear 

The  darkest  faults:  the  sweet  eyes 
frown : the  lips 

Seem  but  a gash.  My  sole  memorial 

Of  Edith  — no,  the  other,  — both 
indeed. 

So  that  bright  face  was  flash’d  thro’ 
sense  and  soul 

And  by  the  poplar  vanish’d  — to  be 
found 

Long  after,  as  it  seem’d,  beneath  the 
tall 

Tree-bowers,  and  those  long-sweeping 
beechen  boughs 

Of  our  New  Forest.  I was  there 
alone : 

The  phantom  of  the  whirling  landau- 
let 

For  ever  past  me  by : when  one  quick 
peal 

Of  laughter  drew  me  thro’  the  glim- 
mering glades 

Down  to  the  snowlike  sparkle  of  a 
cloth 


On  fern  and  foxglove.  Lo,  ohe  face 
again, 

My  Rosalind  in  this  Arden  — Edith 
— all 

One  bloom  of  youth,  health,  beauty, 
happiness, 

And  moved  to  merriment  at  a passing 
jest. 

There  one  of  those  about  her  know- 
ing me 

Call’d  me  to  join  them ; so  with  these 
I spent 

What  seem’d  my  crowning  hour,  my 
day  of  days. 

I woo’d  her  then,  nor  unsuccess 
fully, 

The  worse  for  her,  for  me  ! was  I con- 
tent ? 

Ay  — no,  not  quite  ; for  now  and  then 
I thought 

Laziness,  vague  love-longings,  the 
bright  May, 

Had  made  a heated  haze  to  magnify 

The  charm  of  Edith  — that  a man’s 
ideal 

Is  high  in  Heaven,  and  lodged  with 
Plato’s  God, 

Not  findable  here  — content,  and  not 
content, 

In  some  such  fashion  as  a man  may 
be 

That  having  had  the  portrait  of  his 
friend 

Drawn  by  an  artist,  looks  at  it,  and 
says, 

“ Good  ! very  like  ! not  altogether  he. 

As  yet  I had  not  bound  myself  b } 
words, 

Only,  believing  I loved  Edith,  mad( 

Edith  love  me.  Then  came  the  da> 
when  I, 

Flattering  myself  that  all  my  doubt 

were  fools 

Born  of  the  fool  this  Age  that  doubt 
of  all  — 

Not  I that  day  of  Edith’s  love  o 
mine  — 

Had  braced  my  purpose  to  declar 
myself : 


THE  SISTERS. 


565 


stood  upon  the  stairs  of  Paradise. 
The  golden  gates  would  open  at  a 
word. 

spoke  it  — told  her  of  my  passion, 
seen 

Vnd  lost  and  found  again,  had  got  so 
far, 

lad  caught  her  hand,  her  eyelids 
fell  — I heard 

Vheels,  and  a noise  of  welcome  at 
the  doors  — 

)n  a sudden  after  two  Italian  years 
lad  set  the  blossom  of  her  health 
again, 

'he  younger  sister,  Evelyn,  enter’d 
— there, 

'here  was  the  face,  and  altogether 
she. 

'he  mother  fell  about  the  daughter’s 
neck, 

'he  sisters  closed  in  one  another’s 
arms, 

'heir  people  throng’d  about  them 
from  the  hall, 

Lnd  in  the  thick  of  question  and 
reply 

fled  the  house,  driven  by  one  angel 
face, 

(Lnd  all  the  Furies. 

I was  bound  to  her ; 
could  not  free  myself  in  honor  — 
bound 

ot  by  the  sounded  letter  of  the  word, 
•ut  counterpressures  of  the  yielded 
hand 

hat  timorously  and  faintly  echoed 
mine, 

1 ,uick  blushes,  the  sweet  dwelling  of 
her  eyes 

pon  me  when  she  thought  I did  not 
see  — 

iTere  these  not  bonds  ? nay,  nay,  but 
could  I wed  her 

oving  the  other  ? do  her  that  great 
111  wrong  ? 

^ad  I not  dream’d  I loved  her  yester- 

0 morn  ? 

ad  I not  known  where  Love,  at  first 

1 a fear, 

rew  after  marriage  to  full  height 
and  form  ? 


Yet  after  marriage,  that  moek-sistei 
there  — 

Brother-in-law  — the  fiery  nearness  of 
it  — 

Unlawful  and  disloyal  brotherhood  — 

What  end  but  darkness  could  ensue 
from  this 

For  all  the  three  ? So  Love  and  Honor 
jarr’d 

Tho’  Love  and  Honor  join’d  to  raise 
the  full 

High-tide  of  doubt  that  sway’d  me  up 
and  down 

Advancing  nor  retreating. 

Edith  wrote 

“ My  mother  bids  me  ask  ” (I  did  not 
tell  you  — 

A widow  with  less  guile  than  many  a 
child. 

God  help  the  wrinkled  children  that 
are  Christ’s 

As  well  as  the  plump  cheek  — she 
wrought  us  harm, 

Poor  soul,  not  knowing)  “are  you 
ill  ? ” (so  ran 

The  letter)  “ you  have  not  been  here 
of  late. 

You  will  not  find  me  here.  At  last  I 
go 

On  that  long-promised  visit  to  the 
North. 

I told  your  wayside  story  to  my 
mother 

And  Evelyn.  She  remembers  you. 
Farewell. 

Pray  come  and  see  my  mother.  Al- 
most blind 

With  ever-growing  cataract,  yet  she 
thinks 

She  sees  you  when  she  hears.  Again 
farewell.” 

Cold  words  from  one  I had  hoped  to 
warm  so  far 

That  I could  stamp  my  image  on  her 
heart ! 

“ Pray  come  and  see  my  mother,  and 
farewell.” 

Cold,  but  as  welcome  as  free  airs  of 
heaven 

After  a dungeon’s  closeness.  Selfish, 
strange  J 


566 


THE  SISTERS. 


What  dwarfs  are  men ! my  strangled  | 
vanity 

Utter’d  a stifled  cry  — to  have  vext 
myself 

And  all  in  vain  for  her  — cold  heart 
or  none  — 

No  bride  for  me.  Yet  so  my  path 
was  clear 

To  win  the  sister. 

Whom  I woo’d  and  won. 

For  Evelyn  knew  not  of  my  former 
suit, 

Because  the  simple  mother  work’d  upon 

By  Edith  pray’d  me  not  to  whisper  of  it. 

And  Edith  would  be  bridesmaid  on 
the  day. 

But  on  that  day,  not  being  all  at 
ease, 

I from  the  altar  glancing  back  upon 
her, 

Before  the  first  “ I will  ” was  utter’d, 
saw 

The  bridesmaid  pale,  statuelike,  pas- 
sionless — 

u No  harm,  no  harm  ” I turn’d  again, 
and  placed 

My  ring  upon  the  finger  of  my  bride. 

So,  when  we  parted,  Edith  spoke 
no  word, 

She  wept  no  tear,  but  round  my 
Evelyn  clung 

In  utter  silence  for  so  long,  I thought 

“ What,  will  she  never  set  her  sister 
free  ? ” 

We  left  her,  happy  each  in  each, 
and  then, 

As  tho’  the  happiness  of  each  in  each 

Were  not  enough,  must  fain  have  tor- 
rents, lakes, 

Hills,  the  great  things  of  Nature  and 
the  fair, 

To  lift  us  as  it  were  from  common- 
place, 

And  help  us  to  our  joy.  Better  have 
sent 

Our  Edith  thro’  the  glories  of  the 
earth, 

To  change  with  her  horizon,  if  true 
Love 

Were  not  his  own  imperial  all-in-all. 


Far  off  we  went.  My  God,  I would 
not  live 

Save  that  I think  this  gross  hard- 
seeming  world 

Is  our  misshaping  vision  of  the  Powers 

Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 
our  gains. 

For  on  the  dark  night  of  our  mar 
riage-day 

The  great  Tragedian,  that  had 
quench'd  herself 

In  that  assumption  of  the  bridesmaid 
— she 

That  loved  me  — our  true  Edith  — 
her  brain  broke 

With  over-acting,  till  she  rose  and 
fled 

Beneath  a pitiless  rush  of  Autumn 
rain 

To  the  deaf  church  — to  be  let  in  — 
to  pray 

Before  that  altar  — so  I think , and 
there 

They  found  her  beating  the  hard  Pro- 
testant doors. 

She  died  and  she  was  buried  ere  we. 
knew. 

I learnt  it  first.  I had  to  speak 
At  once 

The  bright  quick  smile  of  Evelyn 
that  had  sunn’d 

The  morning  of  our  marriage,  past 
away  : 

And  on  our  home-return  the  daity 
want 

Of  Edith  in  the  house,  the  garden 
still 

Haunted  us  like  her  ghost;  and  b> 
and  by, 

Either  from  that  necessity  for  talk 

Which  lives  with  blindness,  or  plaii 
innocence 

Of  nature,  or  desire  that  her  los 
child 

Should  earn  from  both  the  praise  o 
heroism, 

The  mother  broke  her  promise  to  tin 
dead, 

And  told  the  living  daughter  witl 
what  love 


567 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR , Trim  tor/TM*. 


fidith  had  welcomed  my  brief  wooing 
of  her, 

Vnd  all  her  sweet  self-sacrifice  and 
death. 

Henceforth  that  mystic  bond  be- 
twixt the  twins  — 

)id  I not  tell  you  they  were  twins  ? 

— prevail’d 

10  far  that  no  caress  could  win  my 

wife 

Sack  to  that  passionate  answer  of  full 
heart 

had  from  her  at  first.  Not  that  her 
love, 

rho’  scarce  as  great  as  Edith’s  power 
of  love, 

lad  lessen’d,  but  the  mother’s  gar- 
rulous wail 

?or  ever  woke  the  unhappy  Past 
again, 

Till  that  dead  bridesmaid,  meant  to 
be  my  bride, 

?ut  forth  cold  hands  between  us,  and 
I fear’d 

The  very  fountains  of  her  life  were 
chill’d ; 

>o  took  her  thence,  and  brought  her 
here,  and  here 

She  bore  a child,  whom  reverently  we 
call’d 

Mitli ; and  in  the  second  year  was 
born 

^ second  — this  I named  from  her 
own  self, 

Evelyn ; then  two  weeks  — no  more 

— she  joined, 

11  and  beyond  the  grave,  that  one 

she  loved. 

Now  in  this  quiet  of  declining  life, 
Thro’  dreams  by  night  and  trances  of 
the  day, 

The  sisters  glide  about  me  hand  in 
hand, 

i loth  beautiful  alike,  nor  can  I tell 
)ne  from  the  other,  no,  nor  care  to  tell 
)ne  from  the  ether,  only  know  they 
come, 

I They  smile  upon  me,  till,  remembering 

The  love  they  both  have  borne  me, 
and  the  love 


I bore  them  both  — divided  as  I am 

From  either  by  the  stillness  of  the 
grave  — 

I know  not  which  of  these  I love  the 
best. 

But  you  love  Edith;  and  her  own 
true  eyes 

Are  traitors  to  her : our  quick  Ev- 
elyn — 

The  merrier,  prettier,  wittier,  as  they 
talk, 

And  not  without  good  reason,  my 
good  son  — 

Is  yet  untouch’d : and  I that  hold 
them  both 

Dearest  of  all  things  — well,  I am  not 
sure  — 

But  if  there  lie  a preference  either  way, 

And  in  the  rich  vocabulary  of  Love 

“ Most  dearest  ” be  a true  superla- 
tive — 

I think  I likewise  love  your  Edith 
most. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE ; OR, 
THE  ENTAIL.  1 

i. 

’Ouse-keeper  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur 
New  Squire  coom’d  last  night 
Butter  an’  heggs  — yis  — yis.  I’ll 
goa  wi’  tha  back  : all  right; 
Butter  I warrants  be  prime,  an’  I war- 
rants the  heggs  be  as  well, 
Hafe  a pint  o’  milk  runs  out  when  ya 
breaks  the  shell. 

ii. 

Sit  thysen  down  fur  a bit : hev  a glass 
o’  cowslip  wine ! 

I liked  the  owd  Squire  an’  ’is  gells  as 
thaw  they  was  gells  o’  mine, 
Fur  then  we  was  all  es  one,  the  Squire 
an’  ’is  darters  an’  me, 

Hall  but  Miss  Annie,  the  heldest,  I 
niver  not  took  to  she : 

But  Nelly,  the  last  of  the  cletch  * I 
liked  ’er  the  fust  on  ’em  all, 

1 See  note  to  “ Northern  Cobbler.’1 

2 A brood  of  chickens. 


568 


TH&  TILLAGE  WIPE;  OR,  THE  ENTm, 


Fur  hoffens  we  talkt  o’  my  darter  es 
died  o’  the  fever  at  fall : 

An’  I thowt  ’twur  the  will  o’  the  Lord, 
but  Miss  Annie  she  said  it  wur 
draains, 

Fur  she  hedn’t  naw  coomf ut  in  ’er,  an’ 
arn’d  naw  thanks  fur  ’er  paains. 

Eh ! thebbe  all  wi’  the  Lord  my  childer, 
I han’t  gotten  none  ! 

8a  new  Squire’s  coom’d  wi’  ’is  taail  in 
’is  ’and,  an’  owd  Squire’s  gone. 

hi. 

Fur  ’staate  be  i’  taail,  my  lass  : tha 
dosn’  knaw  what  that  be  ? 

But  I knaws  the  law,  I does,  for  the 
lawyer  ha  towd  it  me. 

“ When  theer’s  naw  ’ead  to  a ’Ouse  by 
the  fault  o’  that  ere  maale  — 

The  gells  they  counts  fur  nowt,  and 
the  next  un  he  taakes  the  taail.” 

IV. 

What  be  the  next  un  like  ? can  tha 
tell  ony  harm  on  ’im  lass  ? — 

Naay  sit  down  — naw  ’urry  — sa 
cowd  ! — hev  another  glass  ! 

Straange  an’  cowd  fur  the  time  ! we 
may  happen  a fall  o’  snaw  — 

Not  es  I cares  fur  to  hear  ony  harm, 
but  I likes  to  knaw. 

An’  I ’oaps  es  ’e  beant  boooklarn’d : 
but  ’e  dosn’  not  coom  fro’  the 
shere  ; 

We’  anew  o’  that  wi’  the  Squire,  an’ 
we  haates  boooklarnin’  ere. 

v. 

Fur  Squire  wur  a Varsity  scholard,  an’ 
niver  lookt  arter  the  land  — 

Whoats  or  turmuts  or  taates  — e’  ’ed 
hallus  a boook  i’  ’is  ’and, 

Hallus  aloan  wi’  ’is  boooks,  thaw  nigh 
upo’  seventy  year. 

An’  boooks,  what’s  boooks  ? thou 
knaws  thebbe  neyther  ’ere  nor 
theer. 

VI. 

An’  the  gells,  they  hadn’t  naw  taails, 
an’  the  lawyer  he  towd  it  me 


That  ’is  taail  were  soa  tied  up . es  k. 

couldn’t  cut  down  a tree  ! 

“ Drat  the  trees,”  says  I,  to  be  sewer  I 
haates  ’em,  my  lass, 

Fur  we  puts  the  muck  o’  the  land  a ’ 
they  sucks  the  muck  fro’  t' 
grass. 

VII. 

An’  Squire  wur  hallus  a-smilin’,  an* 
gied  to  the  tramps  goin’  by  — 
An’  all  o’  the  wust  i’  the  parish  — wi’ 
hoffens  a drop  in  ’is  eye. 

An’  ivry  darter  o’  Squire’s  hed  her 
awn  ridin-erse  to  ’ersen, 

An’  they  rampaged  about  wi’  their 
grooms,  an’  was  ’untin’  arter 
the  men, 

An’  hallus  a-dallackt 1 an’  dizen’d  out 
an’  a-buyin’  new  cloathes, 
While  ’e  sit  like  a graat  glimmer 
gowk2  wi’  ’is  glasses  athurt  ’is 
noase, 

An’  ’is  noase  sa  grufted  wi’  snuff  as  it 
couldn’t  be  scroob’d  awaay, 
Fur  atween  ’is  readin’  an’  writin’  ’e 
snifft  up  a box  in  a daay, 

An’  ’e  niver  runn’d  arter  the  fox,  noi 
arter  the  birds  wi’  ’is  gun, 

An’  ’e  niver  not  shot  one  ’are,  but  ’t 
leaved  it  to  Charlie  ’is  son, 

An’  ’e  niver  not  fish’d  ’is  awn  ponds 
but  Charlie  ’e  cotch’d  the  pike 
For  ’e  warn’t  not  burn  to  the  land,  an 
’e  didn’t  take  kind  to  it  like ; 
But  I ears  es  ’e’d  gie  fur  a howry  3 owe 
book  thutty  pound  an’  moor, 
An’  ’e’d  wrote  an  owd  book,  his  awr 
sen,  sa  I knaw’d  es  ’e’d  coon 
to  be  poor  ; 

An’  ’e  gied  — I be  fear’d  to  tell  tha  ’ov 
much  — fur  an  owd  scrattec 
stoan, 

An’  ’e  digg’d  up  a loomp  i’  the  lan< 
an’  ’e  got  a brown  pot  an’  : 
boan, 

An’  ’e  bowt  owd  money,  es  wouldn’ 
goa,  wi’  good  gowd  o’  tin 
Queen, 

1 Overdressed  in  gay  colors.  * Owl. 
s Filthy. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR , THE  ENTAIL, 


569 


m’  ’e  bowt  little  statutes  all-naakt 
an’  which  was  a shaame  to  be 
seen  ; 

Jut  ’e  niver  loookt  ower  a bill,  nor  ’e 
niver  not  seed  to  owt, 
in’  ’e  niver  knawd  nowt  but  boooks, 
an’  boooks,  as  thou  knaws, 
beant  nowt. 

VIII. 

iut  owd  Squired  laady  es  long  es  she 
lived  she  kep  ’em  all  clear, 
'haw  es  long  es  she  lived  I never  hed 
none  of  ’er  darters  ’ere ; 

>ut  arter  she  died  we  was  all  es  one, 
the  childer  an’  me, 
in’  sarvints  runn’d  in  an’  out,  an’ 
offens  we  hed  ’em  to  tea. 

*awk ! ’ow  I laugh’d  when  the  lasses 
’ud  talk  o’  their  Missis’s  waays, 
m’  the  Missisis  talk’d  o’  the  lasses.  — 
I’ll  tell  tha  some  o’  these  daays. 
loanly  Miss  Annie  were  saw  stuck 
oop,  like  ’er  mother  afoor  — 

Er  an’  ’er  blessed  darter  — they  niver 
derken’d  my  door. 

IX. 

Ln’  Squire  ’e  smiled  an’  ’e  smiled  till 
’e’d  gotten  a fright  at  last, 

Ln’  ’e  calls  fur  ’is  son,  fur  the  ’turney’s 
letters  they  foller’d  sa  fast ; 

*ut  Squire  wur  afear’d  o’  ’is  son, 
an’  ’e  says  to  ’im,  meek  as  a 
mouse, 

Lad,  thou  mun  cut  off  thy  taail,  or 
the  gells  ’ull  goa  to  the  ’Ouse, 
'ur  I finds  es  I be  that  i’  debt,  es  I 
’oaps  es  thou’ll  ’elp  me  a bit, 

.n’  if  thou’ll  ’gree  to  cut  off  thy  taail 
I may  saave  mysen  yit.” 

x. 

ut  Charlie  ’e  sets  back  ’is  ears,  ’an  ’e 
swears,  an’  ’e  says  to  im  “ Noa. 
ve  gotten  the  ’staate  by  the  ta&ilan’ 
be  dang’d  if  I iver  let  goa ! 
oom  ! coom  ! feyther,”  ’e  says,  “ why 
shouldn’t  thy  boooks  be  sowd  ? 
i hears  es  soom  o’  thy  boooks  mebbe 
worth  their  weight  i’  gowd.” 


XI. 

Heaps  an’  heaps  o’  boooks,  I ha’  see’d 
’em,  belong’d  to  the  Squire, 
But  the  lasses  ’ed  teard  out  leaves  i’ 
the  middle  to  kindle  the  fire ; 
Sa  moast  on  ’is  owd  big  boooks  fetch’d 
nigh  to  nowt  at  the  saale, 

And  Squire  were  at  Charlie  agean  to 
git  ’im  to  cut  off  ’is  taail. 

XII. 

Ya  wouldn’t  find  Charlie’s  likes  — ’e 
were  that  outdacious  at  oam, 
Not  thaw  yawent  fur  to  raake  out  Hell 
wi’  a small-tooth  coamb  — 
Droonk  wi’  the  Quoloty’s  wine,  an’ 
droonk  wi’  the  farmer’s  aale, 
Mad  wi’  the  lasses  an’  all  — an’  ’e 
wouldn’t  cut  off  the  taail. 

XIII. 

Thou’s  coom’d  oop  by  the  beck  ; and 
a thurn  be  a-grawin’  theer, 

I niver  ha  seed  it  sa  white  wi’  the 
Maay  es  I see’d  it  to-year  — 
Theerabouts  Charlie  joompt  — and  it 
gied  me  a scare  tother  night, 
Fur  I thowt  it  wur  Charlie’s  ghoast  i’ 
tl  derk,  fur  it  loookt  sa  white. 
“ Billy,”  says  ’e,  “ hev  a joomp ! ” — 
thaw  the  banks  o’  the  beck  be 
sa  high, 

Fur  he  ca’d  ’is  ’erse  Billy-rough-un, 
thaw  niver  a hair  wur  awry ; 
But  Billy  fell  bakkuds  o’  Charlie,  an’ 
Charlie  ’e  brok  ’is  neck, 

Sa  theer  wur  a hend  o’  the  taail,  fur 
’e  lost  ’is  taail  i’  the  beck. 

XIV. 

Sa  ’is  taail  wur  lost  an’  ’is  boooks  wur 
gone  an’  ’is  boy  wur  dead, 

An’  Squire  ’e  smiled  an’  ’e  smiled,  but 
’e  niver  not  lift  oop  ’is  ’ead ; 
Hallus  a soft  un  Squire ! an’  ’e  smiled, 
fur  ’e  hedn’t  naw  friend, 

Sa  feyther  an’  son  wras  buried  togither, 
an’  this  wur  the  hend. 

xv. 

An’  Parson  as  hesn’t  the  call,  nor  th® 
mooney,  but  hes  the  pride. 


570 


IN  THE  CHILDREN’S  HOSPITAL. 


’E  reads  of  a sewer  an’  sartan  ’oap  o’ 
the  tother  side; 

But  I beant  that  sewer  es  the  Lord, 
howsiver  they  praay’d  an’ 
praay’d, 

Lets  them  inter  ’eaven  easy  es  leaves 
their  debts  to  be  paaid. 

Siver  the  mou’ds  rattled  down  upo’ 
poor  owd  Squire  i’  the  wood, 
An’  I cried  along  wi’  the  gells,  fur 
they  weant  niver  coom  to  naw 
good. 

XVI. 

Fur  Molly  the  long  un  she  walkt 
awaay  wi’  a hoffieer  lad, 

An’  nawbody  ’eard  on  ’er  sin,  sa  o’ 
coorse  she  be  gone  to  the  bad ! 
An’  Lucy  wur  laame  o’  one  leg,  sweet- 
’arts  she  niver  ’ed  none  — 
Straange  an’  unheppen1  Miss  Lucy! 
we  naamed  her  “ Dot  an’  gaw 
one  ! ” 

An’  Hetty  wur  weak  i’  the  hattics, 
wi’out  ony  harm  i’  the  legs, 

Am’  the  fever  ’ed  baaked  Jinny’s  ’ead 
as  bald  as  one  o’  them  heggs, 
&n’  Nelly  wur  up  fro’  the  craadle  as 
big  i’  the  mouth  as  a cow, 

An’  saw  she  mun  hammergrate,2  lass, 
or  she  weant  git  a maate  ony- 
how! 

An’  es  for  Miss  Annie  es  call’d  me 
afoor  my  awn  foalks  to  my 
faace 

“ A hignorant  village  wife  as  ’ud  hev 
to  be  larn’d  her  awn  plaace,” 
Hes  for  Miss  Hannie  the  heldest  lies 
now  be  a grawin  sa  howd, 

I knaws  that  mooch  o’  shea,  es  it  beant 
not  fit  to  be  towd ! 

XVII. 

Sa  I didn’t  not  taake  it  kindly  ov  owd 
Miss  Annie  to  saay 
Es  I should  be  talkin  agean  ’em,  es 
soon  es  they  went  awaay, 

Fur,  lawks ! ’ow  I cried  when  fhey 
went,  an’  our  Nelly  she  giedme 
’er  ’and, 

1 Ungainly,  awkward.  2 Emigrate. 


Fur  I’d  ha  done  owt  for  the  Sqilire  an1 
’is  gells  es  belong’d  to  the  land ; 

Boooks,.  es  I said  afoor,  thebbe  ney 
ther  ’ere  nor  theer ! 

But  I sarved  ’em  wi’  butter  an’  heggs 
fur  huppuds  o’  twenty  year. 

XVIII. 

An’  they  hallus  paaid  what  I iiax’d, 
sa  I hallus  deal’d  wi’  the  Hall, 

An’  they  knaw’d  what  butter  wur,  an’ 
they  knaw’d  what  a hegg  wur 
an’  all ; 

Hugger-mugger  they  lived,  but  they 
wasn’t  that  easy  to  please, 

Till  I gied  ’em  Hinjian  curn,  an’  they 
laaid  big  heggs  es  tha  seeas ; 

An’  I niver  puts  saame 1 i’  my  butter, 
they  does  it  at  Willis’s  farm, 

Taaste  another  drop  o’  the  wine  — 
tweant  do  tha  na  harm. 

XIX. 

Sa  new  Squire’s  coom’d  wi’  ’is  taail  in 
’is  ’and,  an’  owd  Squire’s  gone; 

I heard  ’im  a roomlin’  by,  but  arter 
my  nightcap  wur  on  ; 

Sa  I han’t  clapt  eyes  on  ’im  yit,  fur  he 
coom’d  last  night  sa  laate  — 

Pluksh  ! ! ! 2 the  hens  i’  the  peas ! why 
didn’t  tha  hesp  tha  gaate  ? 


IN  THE  CHILDREN’S 
HOSPITAL. 

EMMIE. 

I. 

Our  doctor  had  call’d  in  another,  D 
never  had  seen  him  before, 

But  he  sent  a chill  to  my  heart  when 
I saw  him  come  in  at  the  door, 
Fresh  from  the  surgery-schools  ot 
France  and  of  other  lands  — 
Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chest, 
big  merciless  hands ! 
Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O yes, 
but  they  said  too  of  him 

1 Lard. 

2 A cry  accompanied  by  a clapping  of  hand* 
to  scare  trespassing  fowl. 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 


571 


fie  was  happier  using  the  knife  than 
in  trying  to  save  the  limb, 

Ud  that  I can  well  believe,  for  he 
look'd  so  coarse  and  so  red, 
could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who 
would  break  their  jests  on  the 
dead, 

^.nd  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had 
loved  him  and  fawn’d  at  his 
knee  — 

Drench'd  with  the  hellish  oorali  — that 
ever  such  things  should  be  ! 

ii. 

iere  was  a boy  — I am  sure  that  some 
of  our  children  would  die 
lut  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the 
smile,  and  the  comforting  eye  — 
Iere  was  a boy  in  the  ward,  every 
bone  seem'd  out  of  its  place  — 
/aught  in  a mill  and  crush'd  — it  was 
all  but  a hopeless  case : 

Lnd  he  handled  him  gently  enough; 
but  his  voice  and  his  face  were 
not  kind, 

^nd  it  was  but  a hopeless  case,  he 
had  seen  it  and  made  up  his 
mind, 

ind  he  said  to  me  roughly  “The  lad 
will  need  little  more  of  your 
care." 

All  the  more  need,"  I told  him,  “ to 
seek  the  Lord  Jesus  in  praye^  ; 
diey  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I 
pray  for  them  all  as  my  own  : " 
■Jut  he  turn’d  to  me,  “ Ay,  good  woman, 
can  prayer  seta  broken  bone?" 
?hen  he  mutter'd  half  to  himself,  but 
I know  that  I heard  him  say 
f All  very  weli  — but  the  good  Lord 
Jesus  has  had  his  day." 

I 

hi. 

1 lad  ? has  it  come  ? It  has  only 
dawn'd.  It  will  come  by  and 
! by. 

) how  could  I serve  in  the  wards  if  the 
hope  of  the  world  were  a lie  ? 
low  could  I bear  with  the  sights  and 
the  loathsome  smells  of  disease 
il5ut  that  He  said  “Ye  do  it  to  me, 
when  ye  do  it  to  these  " ? 


IV. 

So  he  went.  And  we  past  to  this 
ward  where  the  younger  chil- 
dren are  laid  : 

Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  dar- 
ling, our  meek  little  maid ; 

Empty  you  see  just  now!  We  have 
lost  her  who  loved  her  so 
much  — 

Patient  of  pain  tho'  as  quick  as  a seru 
sitive  plant  to  the  touch  ; 

Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often 
moved  me  to  tears, 

Hers  was  the  gratefullest  heart  I have 
found  in  a child  of  her  years  — 

Nay  you  remember  our  Emmie ; you 
used  to  send  her  the  flowers ; 

How  she  would  smile  at  'em,  pla;y 
with  ’em,  talk  to  'em  hours 
after  hours ! 

They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the 
works  of  the  Lord  are  reveal'd 

Little  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from 
a cowslip  out  of  the  fields ; 

Flowers  to  these  “spirits  in  prison" 
are  all  they  can  know  of  the 
spring, 

They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards 
like  the  waft  of  an  Angel’s 
wing ; 

And  she  lay  with  a flower  in  one  hand 
and  her  thin  hands  crost  on  her 
breast  — 

Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  heart  can.  de- 
sire, and  we  thought  her  at  rest, 

Quietly  sleeping  — so  quiet,  our  doc- 
tor said  “ Poor  little  dear, 

Nurse,  I must  do  it  to-morrow ; she’ll 
never  live  thro'  it,  I fear." 

v. 

I walk’d  with  our  kindly  old  doctor  as 
far  as  the  head  of  the  stair, 

Then  I return'd  to  the  ward ; the  child 
didn't  see  I was  there. 

VI. 

Never  since  I was  nurse,  had  I been 
so  grieved  and  so  vext ! 

Emmie  had  heard  him.  Softly  she 
call'd  from  her  cot  to  the  next, 


572 


DEDICATORY  POEM  TO  THE  PRINCESS  ALICE. 


s<  He  says  I shall  never  live  thro'  it,  0 
Annie,  what  shall  I do  7 ” 
Annie  consider’d.  “ If  I,”  said  the 
wise  little  Annie,  “ was  you, 

I should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to 
help  me,  for,  Emmie,  you  see, 
It’s  all  in  the  picture  there;  ‘Little 
children  should  come  to  me.’  ” 
(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us, 
I find  that  it  always  can  please 
Our  children,  the  dear  Lord  Jesus 
with  children  about  his  knees.) 
“ Yes,  and  I will,”  said  Emmie,  “ but 
then  if  I call  to  the  Lord, 

How  should  he  know  that  it’s  me  7 
such  a lot  of  beds  in  the  ward  ! ” 
That  was  a puzzle  for  Annie.  Again 
she  consider’d  and  said : 
“Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and 
you  leave  ’em  outside  on  the 
bed  — 

The  Lord  has  so  much  to  see  to ! but, 
Emmie,  you  tell  it  him  plain, 
It’s  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying 
out  on  the  counterpane.” 

VII. 

I had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child  — 
I could  not  watch  her  for  four  — 
My  brain  had  begun  to  reel  — I felt  I 
could  do  it  no  more. 

That  was  my  sleeping-night,  but  I 
thought  that  it  never  would 
pass. 

There  was  a thunderclap  once,  and  a 
clatter  of  hail  on  the  glass, 
And  there  was  a phantom  cry  that  I 
heard  as  I tost  about, 

The  motherless  bleat  of  a lamb  in  the 
storm  and  the  darkness  with- 
out; 

My  sleep  was  broken  beside  with 
dreams  of  the  dreadful  knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who 
scarce  would  escape  with  her 
life ; 

Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it 
seem’d  she  stood  by  me  and 
smiled, 

And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and 
we  went  to  see  to  the  child. 


VIII. 

He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools : tfe 
believed  her  asleep  again  — 
Her  dear,  long,  lean,  little  arms  lying 
out  on  the  counterpane , 

Say  that  His  day  is  done ! Ah  why 
should  we  care  what  they  say 7 
The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard 
her,  and  Emmie  had  past  away 


DEDICATORY  POEM  TO  THE 
PRINCESS  ALICE. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that, 
which  lived 

True  life,  live  on  — and  if  the  fatal 
kiss, 

Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce 
thee  not 

From  earthly  love  and  life  — if  what 
we  call 

The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from 
out 

This  shadow  into  Substance  — then 
perhaps 

The  mellow’d  murmur  of  the  people’s 
praise 

From  thine  own  State,  and  all  oui 
breadth  of  realm, 

Where  Love  and  Longing  dress  thy 
deeds  in  light, 

Ascends  to  thee;  and  this  March 
morn  that  sees 

Thy  Soldier-brother’s  bridal  orange- 
bloom 

Break  thro’  the  yews  and  cypress  oi 
thy  grave, 

And  thine  Imperial  mother  smile 
again, 

May  send  one  ray  to  thee  ! and  who 
can  tell  — 

Thou  — England’s  England -loving 
daughter  — thou 

Dying  so  English  thou  wouldst  have 
her  flag 

Borne  on  thy  coffin  — where  is  he  car 
swear 

But  that  some  broken  gleam  from  oui 
poor  earth 

May  touch  thee,  while  remembering 
thee,  I lay 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW . 


573 


Vt  thy  pale  feet  this  ballad  of  the 
deeds 

)f  England,  and  her  banner  in  the 
East  ? 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 

i. 

Banner  of  England,  not  for  a season, 
O banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou 
Tloated  in  conquering  battle  or  flapt 
to  the  battle-cry ! 

sfever  with  mightier  glory  than  when 
we  had  rear'd  thee  on  high 
Hying  at  top  of  the  roofs  in  the 
ghastly  siege  of  Lucknow  — 
Shot  thro'  the  staff  or  the  halyard, 
but  ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 
\nd  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 


Trail  were  the  works  that  defended 
the  hold  that  we  held  with  our 
lives  — 

iVomen  and  children  among  us,  God 
help  them,  our  children  and 
i wives ! 

dold  it  we  might — and  for  fifteen 
days  or  for  twenty  at  most. 

i Never  surrender,  I charge  you,  but 

every  man  die  at  his  post ! ” 
iToice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved, 
our  Lawrence  the  best  of  the 
brave  : 

Cold  were  his  brows  when  we  kiss'd 
him  — we  laid  him  that  night 
in  his  grave. 

‘ Every  man  die  at  his  post ! " and 

ii  there  hail’d  on  our  houses  and 
halls 

jOeath  from  their  rifle-bullets,  and 
death  from  their  cannon-balls, 
Death  in  our  innermost  chamber,  and 
death  at  our  slight  barricade, 
Death  while  we  stood  with  the  mus- 
ket, and  death  while  we  stoopt 
| to  the  spade, 

Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to 
y,  the  wounded,  for  often  there 

fell, 


Striking  the  hospital  wall,  crashing 
thro’  it,  their  shot  and  their 
shell, 

Death  — for  their  spies  were  among 
us,  their  marksmen  were  told 
of  our  best, 

So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro' 
the  brain  that  could  think  for 
the  rest ; 

Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreheads, 
and  bullets  would  rain  at  our 
feet  — 

Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the 
rebels  that  girdled  us  round  — 
Death  at  the  glimpse  of  a finger  from 
over  the  breadth  of  a street, 
Death  from  the  heights  of  the  mosque 
and  the  palace,  and  death  in 
ground ! 

Mine  ? yes,  a mine ! Countermine  ! 
down,  down ! and  creep  thro’ 
the  hole  ! 

Keep  the  revolver  in  hand ! you  can 
hear  him — the  murderous  mole! 
Quiet,  ah ! quiet  — wait  till  the  point 
of  the  pickaxe  be  thro’ ! 

Click  with  the  pick,  coming  nearer 
and  nearer  again  than  before  — 
Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the 
dark  pioneer  is  no  more ; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew  J 

IIL 

Ay,  but  the  foe  sprung  his  mine  many 
times,  and  it  chanced  on  a day 
Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground 
thunderclap  echo’d  away, 

Dark  thro'  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur 
like  so  many  fiends  in  their 
hell  — 

Cannon-shot,  musket-shot,  volley  on 
volley,  and  yell  upon  yell  — 
Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myr- 
iad enemy  fell. 

What  have  they  done  ? where  is  it  ? 

Out  yonder.  Guard  the  Redan ! 
Storm  at  the  Water-gate  ! storm  at  the 
Bailey-gate  ! storm,  and  it  ran 
Surging  and  swaying  all  round  us,  as 
’ ocean  on  every  side 


574 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW, . 


Plungps  and  heaves  at  a bank  that  is 
daily  drown'd  by  the  tide  — 

So  many  thousands  that  if  they  be  bold 
enough,  who  shall  escape  ? 

Kill  or  be  kill’d,  live  or  die,  they  shall 
know  we  are  soldiers  and  men  ! 
Ready ! take  aim  at  their  leaders  — 
their  masses  are  gapp’d  with 
our  grape  — 

Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like 
the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 
Flying  and  foil’d  at  the  last  by  the 
handful  they  could  not  subdue  ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 


IV. 

Handful  of  men  as  we  were,  we  were 
English  in  heart  and  in  limb, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race 
to  command,  to  obey,  to  endure, 
Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the 
garrison  hung  but  on  him  ; 

Still  — could  we  watch  at  all  points  ? 
we  were  every  day  fewer  and 
fewer. 

There  was  a whisper  among  us,  but 
only  a whisper  that  past : 

“ Children  and  wives  — if  the  tigers 
leap  into  the  fold  unawares  — 
Every  man  die  at  his  post  — and  the 
foe  may  outlive  us  at  last  — 
Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they 
love,  than  to  fall  into  theirs  ! ” 
Roar  upon  roar  in  a moment  two 
mines  by  the  enemy  sprung 
Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls 
and  our  poor  palisades. 
Rifleman,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be 
sure  that  your  hand  be  as  true  ! 
Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault,  better  aimed 
are  your  flank  fusillades  — 
Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from 
the  ladders  to  which  they  had 
clung, 

Twice  from  the  ditch  where  they  shel- 
ter we  drive  them  with  hand- 
grenades  ; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 


v. 

Then  on  another  wild  morning  another 
wild  earthquake  out-tore 
Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or 
twelve  good  paces  or  more. 
Rifleman,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden 
there  from  the  light  of  the 
sun  — 

One  has  leapt  up  on  the  beach,  crying 
out : “Follow  me, follow  me! '’ — 
Mark  him  — he  falls  ! then  another, 
and  him  too,  and  down  goes  lie. 
Had  they  been  bold  enough  then,  who 
can  tell  but  the  traitors  had 
won  'i 

Boardings  and  rafters  and  doors  — an 
embrasure ! make  way  for  the 
gun  ! 

Now  double-charge  it  with  grape  ! It 
is'  charged  and  we  fire,  and  they 
run. 

Praise  to  our  Indian  brothers,  and  let 
the  dark  face  have  his  due ! 
Thanks  to  the  kindly  dark  faces  who 
fought  with  us, faithful  and  few 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us, 
and  drove  them,  and  smote 
them,  and  slew, 

That  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  oui 
banner  in  India  blew. 

VI. 

Men  will  forget  what  we  suffer  and 
not  what  we  do.  We  can  fight ! 
'But  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  senti- 
nel all  thro’  the  night  — 

Ever  the  mine  and  assault,  our  sallies, 
their  lying  alarms, 

Bugles  and  drums  in  the  darkness,  and 
shoutings  and  soundings  to 
arms, 

Ever  the  labor  of  fifty  that  had  to  be 
done  by  five, 

Ever  the  marvel  among  us  that  one 
should  be  left  alive, 

Ever  the  day  with  its  traitorous  death 
from  the  loopholes  around, 
Ever  the  night  with  its  coflinless 
corpse  to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 
Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a hell,  or  a 
deluge  of  cataract  skies, 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE, , LORD  COBHAM. 


575 


tench  of  old  offal  decaying,  and  in- 
finite torment  of  flies, 
fhouglits  of  the  breezes  of  May  blow- 
ing over  an  English  field, 
diolera,  scurvy,  and  fever,  the  wound 
that  would  not  be  heal’d, 

.opping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pit- 
iful-pitiless knife,  — 

’orture  and  trouble  in  vain,  — for  it 
never  could  save  us  a life. 
ralor  of  delicate  women  who  tended 
the  hospital  bed, 

lorror  of  women  in  travail  among 
the  dying  and  dead, 
rrief  for  our  perishing  children,  and 
never  a moment  for  grief, 

’oil  and  ineffable  weariness,  faltering 
hopes  of  relief, 

lavelock  baffled,  or  beaten,  or  butch- 
er’d for  all  that  we  knew  — 
?hen  day  and  night,  day  and  night, 
coming  down  on  the  still-shat- 
ter’d  walls 

Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thou- 
sands of  cannon-balls  — 

5ut  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 

VII. 

lark  cannonade,  fusillade ! is  it  true 
what  was  told  by  the  scout, 
)utram  and  Havelock  breaking  their 
way  through  the  fell  mutineers? 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ring- 
ing again  in  our  ears  ! 
ill  on  a sudden  the  garrison  utter  a 
jubilant  shout, 

lavelock’s  glorious  Highlanders  an- 
swer with  conquering  cheers, 
dick  from  the  hospital  echo  them, 
women  and  children  come  out, 
Uessing  the  wholesome  white  faces 
of  Havelock’s  good  fusileers, 

5 Lissing  the  war-harden’d  hand  of  the 
Highlander  wet  with  their  tears! 
i )ance  to  the  pibroch  ! — saved  ! we  are 
saved  ! — is  it  you  ? is  it  you  ? 
aved  by  the  valor  of  Havelock,  saved 
by  the  blessing  of  Heaven  ! 
b Hold  it  for  fifteen  days  ! ” we  have 
held  it  for  eighty-seven  ! 


And  ever  aloft  on  the  palace  roof  the 
old  banner  of  England  blew. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD 
COBHAM. 

(in  wales.) 

My  friend  should  meet  me  somewhere 
hereabout 

To  take  me  to  that  hiding  in  the  hills. 

I have  broke  their  cage,  no  gilded 
one,  I trow  — 

I read  no  more  the  prisoner’s  mute  wail 

Scribbled  or  carved  upon  the  pitiless 
stone; 

I find  hard  rocks,  hard  life,  hard  cheer, 
or  none, 

For  I am  emptier  than  a friar’s  brains ; 

But  God  is  with  me  in  this  wilderness, 

These  wet  black  passes  and  foam- 
churning  chasms  — 

And  God’s  free  air,  and  hope  of  bet- 
ter things. 

I would  I knew  their  speech;  not 
now  to  glean, 

Not  now  — I hope  to  do  it — some 
scatter’d  ears, 

Some  ears  for  Christ  in  this  wild  field 
of  Wales  — 

But,  bread,  merely  for  bread.  This 
tongue  that  wagg’d 

They  said  with  such  heretical  arro- 
gance 

Against  the  proud  archbishop  Arun- 
del— 

So  much  God’s  cause  was  fluent  in  it 
— is  here 

But  as  a Latin  Bible  to  the  crowd ; 

“ Bara  ! ” — what  use  ? The  Shepherd, 
when  I speak, 

Vailing  a sudden  eyelid  with  his  hard 

“ Dim  Saesneg  ” passes,  wroth  at 
things  of  old  — 

No  fault  of  mine.  Had  he  God’s  word 
in  Welsh 

He  might  be  kindlier : happily  come 
the  day ! 

Not  least  art  thou,  thou  little  BethJe 
hem 


576 


SIR  JOHN  OLD  CASTLE,  LORD  COB  HAM. 


In  Judah,  forin  thee  the  Lord  was  born; 
Nor  thou  in  Britain,  little  Lutterworth, 
Least,  for  in  thee  the  word  was  born 
again. 

Heaven-sweet  Evangel,  ever-living 
word, 

Who  whilome  spakest  to  the  South  in 
Greek 

About  the  soft  Mediterranean  shores, 
And  then  in  Latin  to  the  Latin  crowd, 
As  good  need  was  — thou  hast  come 
to  talk  our  isle. 

Hereafter  thou,  fulfilling  Pentecost, 
Must  learn  to  use  the  tongues  of  all 
the  world. 

Yet  art  thou  thine  own  witness  that 
thou  bringest 
Not  peace,  a sword,  a fire. 

What  did  he  say, 
My  frighted  Wiclif-preacher  whom  I 
crost 

In  flying  hither  ? that  one  night  a 
crowd 

Throng’d  the  waste  field  about  the 
city  gates : 

The  king  was  on  them  suddenly  with 
a host. 

Why  there  ? they  came  to  hear  their 
preacher.  Then 

Some  cried  on  Cobham,  on  the  good 
Lord  Cobham ; 

Ay,  for  they  love  me  ! but  the  king  — 
nor  voice 

Nor  finger  raised  against  him — took 
and  hang’d, 

Took,  hang’d  and  burnt  — how  many 
— thirty-nine  — 

Call’d  it  rebellion  — hang’d,  poor 
friends,  as  rebels 

And  burn’d  alive  as  heretics ! for 
your  Priest 

Labels  — to  take  the  king  along  with 
him  — 

All  heresy,  treason : but  to  call  men 
traitors 

May  make  men  traitors. 

Rose  of  Lancaster, 
Red  in  thy  birth,  redder  with  house- 
hold war, 

Now  reddest  with  the  blood  of  holy 
men, 


Redder  to  be, red  rose  of  Lancaster-^ 

If  somewhere  in  the  North,  as  Rumor 
sang 

Fluttering  the  hawks  of  this  crown- 
lusting  line  — 

By  firth  and  loch  thy  silver  sister 
grow,1 

That  were  my  rose,  there  my  allegi- 
ance due. 

Self-starved,  they  say  — nay,  mur- 
der’d, doubtless  dead. 

So  to  this  king  I cleaved : my  friend 
was  he, 

Once  my  fast  friend:  I would  have 
given  my  life 

To  help  his  own  from  scathe,  a thou- 
sand lives 

To  save  his  soul.  He  might  have 
come  to  learn 

Our  Wiclif’s  learning:  but  the  worldly: 
Priests 

Who  fear  the  king’s  hard  common- 
sense  should  find 

What  rotten  piles  uphold  their  mason- 
work, 

Urge  him  to  foreign  war.  O had  he 
will’d 

I might  have  stricken  a lusty  stroke 
for  him, 

But  he  would  not ; far  liever  led  my 
friend 

Back  to  the  pure  and  universal 
church, 

But  he  Avould  not : whether  that  heir- 
less flaw 

In  his  throne’s  title  make  him  feel  sc 
frail, 

He  leans  on  Antichrist;  or  that  hie 
mind, 

So  quick,  so  capable  in  soldiership, 

In  matters  of  the  faith,  alas  the  while! 

More  worth  than  all  the  kingdoms  of 
this  world, 

Runs  in  the  rut,  a coward  to  the 
Priest. 

Burnt  — good  Sir  Roger  Acton,  my 
dear  friend! 

Burnt  too,  my  faithful  preacher 
Beverley ! 

1 Richard  II. 


577 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COBHAM . 


>rd  give  thou  power  to  thy  two  wit- 
nesses ! 

?st  the  false  faith  make  merry  over 
them ! 

vo  — nay  but  thirty-nine  have  risen 
and  stand, 

ark  with  the  smoke  of  human  sacri- 
fice, 

?fore  thy  light,  and  cry  continually — 
•y  — against  whom  ? 

Him,  who  should  bear  the  sword 
£ Justice  — what!  the  kingly,  kindly 
boy; 

ho  took  the  world  so  easily  hereto- 
fore, 

y boon  companion,  tavern-fellow  — 
him 

ho  gibed  and  japed  — in  many  a 
merry  tale 

hat  shook  our  sides  — at  Pardoners, 
Summoners, 

riars,  absolution-sellers,  monkeries 
nd  nunneries,  when  the  wild  hour 
and  the  wine 
ad  set  the  wits  aflame. 

Harry  of  Monmouth, 
r Amurath  of  the  East  ? 

Better  to  sink 
hy  fleurs-de-lys  in  slime  again,  and 

fling 

hy  royalty  back  into  the  riotous  fits 
f wine  and  harlotry  — thy  shame, 
and  mine, 

hy  comrade  — than  to  persecute  the 
Lord, 

nd  play  the  Saul  that  never  will  be 
Paul. 

i 

Burnt,  burnt!  and  while  this  mitred 
Arundel 

looms  our  unlicensed  preacher  to 
the  flame, 

he  mitre-sanction’ d harlot  draws  his 
clerks 

ito  the  suburb  — their  hard  celibacy, 
worn  to  be  veriest  ice  of  pureness, 
(i  molten 

ato  adulterous  living,  or  such  crimes 
.s  holy  Paul  — a shame  to  speak  of 
them  — 

jnong  the  heathen  — 

Sanctuary  granted 


To  bandit,  thief,  assassin — yea  to  him 

Who  hacks  his  mother’s  throat  — 
denied  to  him, 

Who  finds  the  Saviour  in  hi£  mother 
tongue. 

The  Gospel,  the  Priest’s  pearl,  flung 
down  to  swine  — 

The  swine,  lay-men,  lay-women,  who 
will  come, 

God  willing,  to  outlearn  the  filthy  friar. 

Ah  rather,  Lord,  than  that  thy 
Gospel,  meant 

To  course  and  range  thro’  all  the 
world,  should  be 

Tether’d  to  these  dead  pillars  of  the 
Church  — 

Rather  than  so,  if  thou  wilt  have 
it  so, 

Burst  vein,  snap  sinew,  and  crack 
heart,  and  life 

Pass  in  the  fire  of  Babylon ! but  how 
long, 

O Lord,  how  long  ! 

My  friend  should  meet  me  here. 

Here  is  the  copse,  the  fountain  and — 
a Cross  ! 

To  thee,  dead  wood,  I bow  not  head 
nor  knees. 

Rather  to  thee,  green  boscage,  work 
of  God, 

Black  holly,  and  white-flower’d  way- 
faring-tree ! 

Rather  to  thee,  thou  living  water, 
drawn 

By  this  good  Wiclif  mountain  down 
from  heaven, 

And  speaking  clearly  in  thy  native 
tongue  — 

No  Latin  — He  that  thirsteth,  come 
and  drink ! 

Eh  ! how  I anger’d  Arundel  asking 
me 

To  worship  Holy  Cross!  I spread 
mine  arms, 

God’s  work,  I said,  a cross  of  flesh 
and  blood 

And  holier.  That  was  heresy.  (My 
good  friend 

By  this  time  should  be  with  me.) 
v " Images  ? ” 

“ Bury  them  as  God’s  truer  images 


578 


SIR  JOHN  OLD  CASTLE,  LORD  COBH  AM. 


Are  daily  buried.”  “ Heresy.  — 
Penance  1 ” “ Fast, 

Hairs  hirt  and  scourge  — nay,  let  a 
man  repent, 

Do  penance  in  his  heart,  God  hears 
him.”  “ Heresy  — 

Not  shriven,  not  saved  ? ” “ What 

profits  an  ill  Priest 

Between  me  and  my  God  ? I would 
not  spurn 

Good  counsel  of  good  friends,  but 
shrive  myself 

No,  not  to  an  Apostle.”  “ Heresy.” 

(My  friend  is  long  in  coming.)  “ Pil- 
grimages ? ” 

Drink,  bagpipes,  revelling,  devil’s- 
dances,  vice. 

The  poor  man's  money  gone  to  fat  the 
friar. 

Who  reads  of  begging  saints  in  Scrip- 
ture — “ Heresy  ” — 

(Hath  he  been  here  — not  found  me 
— gone  again  ? 

Have  I mislearnt  our  place  of  meet- 
ing ? ) “ Bread  — 

Bread  left  after  the  blessing  ? ” how 
they  stared, 

That  was  their  main  test-question  — 
glared  at  me ! 

“ He  veil’d  himself  in  flesh,  and  now 
He  veils 

His  flesh  in  bread,  body  and  bread 
together.” 

Then  rose  the  howl  of  all  the  cassock’d 
wolves, 

“ No  bread,  no  bread.  God’s  body ! ” 
Archbishop,  Bishop, 

Priors,  Canons,  Friars,  bellringers, 
Parish-clerks  — 

iS  No  bread,  no  bread ! ” — “ Authority 
of  the  Church, 

Power  of  the  keys ! ” — Then  I,  God 
help  me,  I 

So  mock’d,  so  spurn’d,  so  baited  two 
whole  days  — 

I lost  myself  and  fell  from  evenness, 

And  rail’d  at  all  the  Popes,  that  ever 
since 

Sylvester  shed  the  venom  of  world- 
wealth 

Into  the  church,  had  only  prov’n 
themselves 


Poisoners,  murderers.  Well  — God 
pardon  all  — 

Me,  them,  and  all  the  world  — yea, 
that  proud  Priest, 

That  mock-meek  mouth  of  utter  Anti- 
christ, 

That  traitor  to  King  Richard  and  the 
truth, 

Who  rose  and  doom’d  me  to  the  fire. 

Amen! 

Nay,  I can  burn,  so  that  the  Lord  of 
life 

Be  by  me  in  my  death. 

Those  three ! the  fourth 

Was  like  the  Son  of  God  ! Not  burnt 
were  they. 

On  them  the  smell  of  burning  had  not 
past. 

That  was  a miracle  to  convert  the  king. 

ThesePharisees,thisCaiaphas-Arundel 

What  miracle  could  turn  q He  here 
again, 

He  thwarting  their  traditions  of  Him- 
self, 

He  would  be  found  a heretic  to  Him- 
self, 

And  doom’d  to  burn  alive. 

So,  caught,  I burn. 

Burn  ? heathen  men  have  borne  as 
much  as  this, 

For  freedom,  or  the  sake  of  those  they 
loved, 

Or  some  less  cause,  some  cause  fai 
less  than  mine ; 

For  every  other  cause  is  less  than 
mine. 

The  moth  will  singe  her  wings,  and 
singed  return, 

Her  love  of  light  quenching  her  feat 
of  pain  — 

How  now,  my  soul,  we  do  not  heed  the 
fire  ? 

Faint  - hearted  ? tut ! — faint  - stoin  ■ 
ach’d ! faint  as  I am, 

God  willing,  I will  burn  for  Him. 

Who  comes  ? 

A thousand  marks  are  set  upon  my 
head. 

Friend  1 — foe  perhaps  — a tussle  foi 
it  then! 

Nay,  but  my  friend.  Thou  art  so  well 
disguised, 


COLUMBUS, 


579 


knew  thee  not.  Hast  thou  brought 
bread  with  thee  ? 

have  not  broken  bread  for  fifty  hours, 
one  ? I am  damn’d  already  by  the 
Priest 

or  holding  there  was  bread  where 
bread  was  none  — 
o bread.  My  friends  await  me  yon- 
der'2 Yes. 

ead  on  then.  Up  the  mountain? 
Is  it  far  ? 

ot  far.  Climb  first  and  reach  me 
down  thy  hand. 

am  not  like  to  die  for  lack  of  bread, 
or  I must  live  to  testify  by  fire.1 


COLUMBUS. 

hains,  my  good  lord : in  your  raised 
brows  I read 

ome  wonder  at  our  chamber  orna- 
ments. 

ie  brought  this  iron  from  our  isles 
of  gold. 

Does  the  king  know  you  deign  to 
visit  him 

Yhom  once  he  rose  from  off  his 
throne  to  greet 

iefore  his  people,  like  his  brother 
king  ? 

I saw  your  face  that  morning  in  the 

crowd. 

At  Barcelona  — tho’  you  were  not 
then 

>o  bearded.  Yes.  The  city  deck’d 
herself 

’o  meet  me,  roar’d  my  name ; the 
king,  the  queen 

lade  me  be  seated,  speak,  and  tell 
them  all 

’he  story  of  my  voyage,  and  while  I 
spoke 

’he  crowd’s  roar  fell  as  at  the  “ Peace, 

II  be  still ! ” 

md  when  I ceased  to  speak,  the  king, 
the  queen, 

>ank  from  their  thrones,  and  melted 

f into  tears, 

1 He  was  burnt  on  Christmas  Day,  1417„ 


And  knelt,  and  lifted  hand  and  heart 
and  voice 

In  praise  to  God  who  led  me  thro’  the 
waste. 

And  then  the  great  “ Laudamus  ” rose 
to  heaven. 

Chains  for  the  Admiral  of  the 
Ocean ! chains 

For  him  who  gave  a new  heaven,  a 
new  earth, 

As  holy  John  had  prophesied  of  me, 

Gave  glory  and  more  empire  to  the 
kings 

Of  Spain  than  all  their  battles  ! chains 
for  him 

Who  push’d  his  prows  into  the  setting 
sun, 

And  made  West  East,  and  sail’d  the 
Dragon’s  mouth, 

And  came  upon  the  Mountain  of  the 
World, 

And  saw  the  rivers  roll  from  Paradise  ! 

Chains!  we  are  Admirals  of  the 
Ocean,  we, 

We  and  our  sons  for  ever.  Ferdinand 

Hath  sign’d  it  and  our  Holy  Catholic 
queen  — 

Of  the  Ocean  — of  the  Indies  — Ad- 
mirals .we  — 

Our  title,  which  we  never  mean  to 
yield, 

Our  guerdon  not  alone  for  what  we 
did, 

But  our  amends  for  all  we  might  have 
done  — 

The  vast  occasion  of  our  stronger 
life  — 

Eighteen  long  years  of  waste,  seven  in 
your  Spain, 

Lost,  showing  courts  and  kings  a truth 
the  babe 

Will  suck  in  with  his  milk  hereafter 
— earth 
A sphere. 

Were  you  at  Salamanca  ? No 

We  fronted  there  the  learning  of  alj 
Spain, 

All  their  cosmogonies,  their  astrono 
mie^ : 


580 


COLUMBUS. 


Guess-work  they  guess’d  it,  but  the 
golden  guess 

Is  morning-star  to  the  full  round  of 
truth. 

No  guess-work ! I was  certain  of  my 
goal; 

Some  thougnt  it  heresy,  but  that 
would  not  hold. 

King  David  call’d  the  heavens  a hide, 
a tent 

Spread  over  earth,  and  so  this  earth 
was  flat : 

Some  cited  old  Lactantius  • could  it  be 

That  trees  grew  downward,  rain  fell 
upward,  men 

Walk’d  like  the  fly  on  ceilings'?  and 
besides, 

The  great  Augustine  wrote  that  none 
could  breathe 

Within  the  zone  of  heat ; so  might 
there  be 

Two  Adams,  two  mankinds,  and  that 
was  clean 

Against  God’s  word : thus  was  I 
beaten  back, 

And  chiefly  to  my  sorrow  by  the 
Church, 

And  thought  to  turn  my  face  from 
Spain,  appeal 

Once  more  to  France  or  England; 
but  our  Queen 

Recall’d  me,  for  at  last  their  High- 
nesses 

Were  half-assured  this  earth  might 
be  a sphere. 

AU  glory  to  the  all-blessed  Trinity, 

All  glory  to  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 

And  Holy  Church,  from  whom  I never 
swerved 

Not  even  by  one  hair’s-breadth  of 
heresy, 

I have  accomplish’d  what  I came  to  do. 

Not  yet  — not  all  — last  night  a 
dream  — I sail’d 

On  my  first  voyage,  harass’d  by  the 
frights 

Of  my  first  crew,  their  curses  and 
their  groans. 

The  great  flame-banner  borne  by  Tene- 
riife. 


The  compass,  like  an  old  friend  false 
at  last 

In  our  most  need,  appall’d  them,  and 
the  wind 

Still  westward,  and  the  weedy  seas  — 
at  length 

The  landbird,  and  the  branch  with 
berries  on  it, 

The  carven  staff — and  last  the  light, 
the  light 

On  Guanahani!  but  I changed  the 
name; 

San  Salvador  I call’d  it;  and  the 
light 

Grew  as  I gazed,  and  brought  out  a 
broad  sky 

Of  dawning  over — not  those  alien 
palms, 

The  marvel  of  that  fair  new  nature  — 
not 

That  Indian  isle,  but  our  most  ancient 
East 

Moriah,  with  Jerusalem ; and  I saw 

The  glory  of  the  Lord  flash  up,  and 
beat 

Thro’  all  the  homely  town  from  jas- 
per, sapphire, 

Chalcedony,  emerald,  sardonyx,  sar- 
dius, 

Chrysolite,  beryl,  topaz,  chry  sop  rase, 

Jacynth,  and  amethyst  — and  those 
twelve  gates, 

Pearl  — and  I woke,  and  thought  — 
death  — I shall  die  — 

I am  written  in  the  Lamb’s  own  Book 
of  Life 

To  walk  within  the  glory  of  the  Lord 

Sunless  and  moonless,  utter  light  — 
but  no ! 

The  Lord  had  sent  this  bright,  strange 
dream  to  me 

To  mind  me  of  the  secret  vow  I made 

When  Spain  was  waging  war  against 
the  Moor  — 

I strove  myself  with  Spain  against 
the  Moor. 

There  came  two  voices  from  the  Sep- 
ulchre, 

Two  friars  crying  that  if  Spain  should 
oust 

The  Moslem  from  her  limit*  he.  the 
fierce 


COLUMBUS. 


58] 


)ldan  of  Egypt,  would  break  down 
and  raze 

he  blessed  tomb  of  Christ ; whereon 
I vow’d 

hat,  if  our  Princes  harken’d  to  my 
prayer, 

rhatever  wealth  I brought  from  that 
new  world 

hould,  in  this  old,  be  consecrate  to 
lead 

new  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
nd  free  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from 
thrall. 

Gold  ? I had  brought  your  Princes 
gold  enough 

left  alone ! Being  but  a Genovese, 
am  handled  worse  than  had  I been  a 
Moor, 

nd  breach’d  the  belting  wall  of 
Cambalu, 

nd  given  the  Great  Khan’s  palaces 
to  the  Moor, 

r clutch’d  the  sacred  crown  of  Pres- 
ter  John, 

nd  cast  it  to  the  Moor:  but  had  I 
brought 

rom  Solomon’s  now-recover’d  Ophir 
all 

he  gold  that  Solomon’s  navies  car- 
ried home, 

Tould  that  have  gilded  me ? Blue 
blood  of  Spain, 

ho’  quartering  your  own  royal  arms 
of  Spain, 

1 have  not:  blue  blood  and  black  blood 
of  Spam, 

he  noble  and  the  convict  of  Cas- 
tile, 

fowl’d  me  from  Hispaniola ; for  you 
know 

he  flies  at  home,  that  ever  swarm 
about 

fnd  cloud  the  highest  heads,  and 
murmur  down 

ruth  in  the  distance  — these  out- 
buzz’d  me  so 

hat  even  our  prudent  king,  our  right- 
j,  eous  queen  — 

■ pray’d  them  being  so  calumniated 
hey  would  commission  one  of  weight 
and  worth 


To  judge  between  my  slander’d  self 
and  me  — 

Fonseca  my  main  enemy  at  their  court, 

They  send  me  out  his  tool,  Bovadilla, 
one 

As  ignorant  and  impolitic  as  a beast  — 

Blockish  irreverence,  brainless  greed 
— who  sack’d 

My  dwelling,  seized  upon  my  papers, 
loosed 

My  captives,  feed  the  rebels  of  the 
crown, 

Sold  the  crown-farms  for  all  but  noth- 
ing, gave 

All  but  free  leave  for  all  to  work  tha 
mines, 

Drove  me  and  my  good  brothers  homo 
in  chains. 

And  gathering  ruthless  gold  — a sin- 
gle piece 

Weigh’d  nigh  four  thousand  Castil- 
lanos  — so 

They  tell  me  — weigh’d  him  down 
into  the  abysm  — 

The  hurricane  of  the  latitude  on  him 
fell, 

The  seas  of  our  discovering  over-roll 

Him  and  his  gold  ; the  frailer  caravel, 

With  what  was  mine,  came  happily  to 
the  shore. 

There  was  a glimmering  of  God’s  hand. 

And  God 

Hath  more  than  glimmer’d  on  me.  O 
my  lord, 

I swear  to  you  I heard  his  voice  be- 
tween 

The  thunders  in  the  black  Veragua 
nights, 

“ O soul  of  little  faith,  slow  to  believe  ! 

Have  I not  been  about  thee  from  thy 
birth  ? 

Given  thee  the  keys  of  the  great 
Ocean-sea  ? 

Set  thee  in  light  till  time  shall  be  no 
more 1 

Is  it  I who  have  deceived  thee  or  the 
world  *? 

Endure ! thou  hast  done  so  well  for 
men,  that  men 

Cry  out  against  thee  : was  it  otherwise 

With  mine  own  Son  1 ” 


582 


COLUMBUS. 


And  more  than  once  in  days 

Of  doubt  and  cloud  and  storm,  when 
drowning  hope 

Sank  all  but  out  of  sight,  I heard  his 
voice, 

“ Be  not  cast  down.  I lead  thee  by 
the  hand, 

Fear  not.”  And  I shall  hear  his 
voice  again  — 

I know  that  he  has  led  me  all  my  life, 

I am  not  yet  too  old  to  work  his  will  — 

His  voice  again. 

Still  for  all  that,  my  lord, 

I lying  here  bedridden  and  alone, 

Cast  off,  put  by,  scouted  by  court  and 
king  — 

The  first  discoverer  starves  — his  fol- 
lowers, all 

Flower  into  fortune  — our  world’s  way 
— and  I, 

Without  a roof  that  I can  call  mine 
own, 

With  scarce  a coin  to  buy  a meal 
withal, 

And  seeing  what  a door  for  scoundrel 
scum 

I open’d  to  the  West,  thro’  which  the 
lust, 

Yillany,  violence,  avarice,  of  your 
Spain 

Pour’d  in  on  all  those  happy  naked 
isles  — 

Their  kindly  native  princes  slain  or 
slaved, 

Their  wives  and  children  Spanish  con- 
cubines. 

Their  innocent  hospitalities  quench’d 
in  blood, 

Some  dead  of  hunger,  some  beneath 
the  scourge, 

Some  over-labor’d,  some  by  their  own 
hands,  — 

Tea,  the  dear  mothers,  crazing  Nature, 
kill 

Their  babies  at  the  breast  for  hate  of 
Spain  — 

Ah  God,  the  harmless  people  whom 
we  found 

In  Hispaniola’s  island-Paradise  ! 

Who  took  us  for  the  very  Gods  from 
Heaven, 


And  we  have  sent  them  very  fiend 
from  Hell ; 

And  I myself,  myself  not  blameless, 

Could  sometimes  wish  I had  never  let 
the  way. 

Only  the  ghost  of  our  great  Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles  on  me,  saying,  “ Be  thou  com 
forted ! 

This  creedless  people  will  be  brough 
to  Christ 

And  own  the  holy  governance  o 
Rome.” 

But  who  could  dream  that  we,  win 
bore  the  Cross 

Thither,  were  excommunicated  there 

For  curbing  crimes,  that  scandalizec 
the  Cross, 

By  him,  the  Catalonian  Minorite, 

Rome’s  Yicar  in  our  Indies  ? who  be 
lieve 

These  hard  memorials  of  our  truth  tc 
Spain 

Clung  closer  to  us  for  a longer  tern 

Than  any  friend  of  ours  at  Court  ? 
and  yet 

Pardon  — too  harsh,  unjust.  I air 
rack’d  with  pains. 

You  see  that  I have  hung  them  by 
my  bed, 

And  I will  have  them  buried  in  my 
grave. 

Sir,  in  that  flight  of  ages  which  are 
God’s 

Own  voice  to  justify  the  dead  — per- 
chance 

Spain  once  the  most  chivalric  race  on 
earth, 

Spain  then  the  mightiest,  wealthiest1 
realm  on  earth, 

So  made  by  me,  may  seek  to  unbury 
•me, 

To  lay  me  in  some  shrine  of  this  old 
Spain, 

Or  in  that  vaster  Spain  I leave  to 
Spain. 

Then  some  one  standing  by  my  grave 
will  say, 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 


58  3 


‘Behold  the  bones  of  Christopher 
Colon  ” — 

‘Ay,  but  the  chains,  what  do  they 
mean  — the  chains  ? ” — 
sorrow  for  that  kindly  child  of  Spain 
vVho  then  will  have  to  answer,  “ These 
same  chains 

3ound  these  same  bones  back  thto* 
the  Atlantic  sea, 

Vhich  he  unchain’d  for  all  the  world 
to  come.” 

0 Queen  of  Heaven  who  seest  the 
souls  in  Hell 

Vnd  purgatory,  I suffer  all  as  much 
Vs  they  do  — for  the  moment.  Stay, 
my  son 

s here  anon : my  son  will  speak  for 
me 

Vblier  than  I can  in  these  spasms  that 
grind 

3one  against  bone.  You  will  not. 
One  last  word. 

You  move  about  the  Court,  I pray 
you  tell 

Hng  Ferdinand  who  plays  with  me, 
that  one, 

Vhose  life  has  been  no  play  with  him 
and  his 

BMalgos  — shipwrecks,  famines,  fe- 
vers, fights, 

Mutinies,  treacheries  — wink’d  at,  and 
condoned  — 

That  I am  loyal  to  him  till  the  death, 
Vnd  ready  — tho’ our  Holy  Catholic 
Queen, 

Who  fain  had  pledged  her  jewels  on 
my  first  voyage, 

Whose  hope  was  mine  to  spread  the 
Catholic  faith, 

Who  wept  with  me  when  I return’d 
in  chains, 

Who  sits  beside  the  blessed  Virgin 
now, 

Go  whom  I send  my  prayer  by  night 
and  day  — 

dhe  is  gone  — but  you  will  tell  the 
King,  that  I, 

tack’d  as  I am  with  gout,  and 
wrench’d  with  pains 
Gain’d  in  the  service  of  His  Highness, 
yet 


Am  ready  to  sail  forth  on  one  las 
voyage, 

And  readier,  if  the  King  would  hea* 
to  lead 

One  last  crusade  against  the  Saracen 

And  save  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from 
thrall. 

Going  ? I am  old  and  slighted  : yov 
have  dared 

Somewhat  perhaps  in  coming  ? my 
poor  thanks ! 

I am  but  an  alien  and  a Genovese. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 

(FOUNDED  ON  AN  IRISH  LEGEND. 

A.D.  700.) 

I. 

I was  the  chief  of  the  race  — he  had 
stricken  my  father  dead  — 

But  I gather’d  my  fellows  together,  I 
swore  I would  strike  off  his 
head. 

Each  one  of  them  look’d  like  a king, 
and  was  noble  in  birth  as  in 
worth, 

And  each  of  them  boasted  he  sprang 
from  the  oldest  race  upon  earth. 

Each  was  as  brave  in  the  fight  as  the 
bravest  hero  of  song, 

And  each  of  them  liefer  had  died  than 
have  done  one  another  a wrong. 

He  lived  on  an  isle  in  the  ocean  — we 
sail’d  on  a Friday  morn  — 

He  that  had  slain  my  father  the  day 
before  I was  born. 

ii. 

And  we  came  to  the  isle  in  the  ocean 
and  there  on  the  shore  was  he. 

But  a sudden  blast  blew  us  out  and 
away  thro’  a boundless  sea. 

hi. 

And  we  came  to  the  Silent  Isle  that 
we  never  had  touch’d  at  before, 

Where  a silent  ocean  always  broke  on 
a silent  shore, 


584 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 


And  the  brooks  glitter’d  on  in  the  light 
without  sound,  and  the  long 
waterfalls 

Pour’d  in  a thunderless  plunge  to  the 
base  of  the  mountain  walls, 
And  the  poplar  and  cypress  unshaken 
by  storm  flourish’d  up  beyond 
sight, 

And  the  pine  shot  aloft  from  the  crag 
to  an  unbelievable  height, 

And  high  in  the  heaven  above  it  there 
flicker’d  a songless  lark, 

And  the  cock  couldn’t  crow,  and  the 
bull  couldn’t  low,  and  the  dog 
couldn’t  bark. 

And  round  it  we  went,  and  thro’  it,  but 
never  a murmur,  a breath  — 

It  was  all  of  it  fair  as  life,  it  was  all 
of  it  quiet  as  death, 

And  we  hated  the  beautiful  Isle,  for 
whenever  we  strove  to  speak 
Our  voices  were  thinner  and  fainter 
than  any  flittermouse-shriek  ; 
And  the  men  that  were  mighty  of 
tongue  and  could  raise  such 
a battle-cry 

That  a hundred  who  heard  it  would 
rush  on  a thousand  lances  and 
die  — 

0 they  to  be  dumb’d  by  the  charm  ! 
— so  fluster’d  with  anger  were 
they 

They  almost  fell  on  each  other ; but 
after  we  sail’d  away. 

iv. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Shouting, 
we  landed,  a score  of  wild  birds 
Cried  from  the  topmost  summit  with 
human  voices  and  words  ; 

Once  in  an  hour  they  cried,  and  when- 
ever their  voices  peal’d 
The  steer  fell  down  at  the  plow  and 
the  harvest  died  from  the  field, 
And  the  men  dropt  dead  in  the  valleys 
and  half  of  the  cattle  went  lame, 
And  the  roof  sank  in  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  dwelling  broke  into 
fiame  ; 

And  the  shouting  of  these  wild  birds 
ran  into  the  hearts  of  my  crew, 


Till  they  shouted  along  with  the  shout- 
ing and  seized  one  another  and 
slew ; 

But  I drew  them  the  one  from  the 
other  ; I saw  that  we  could  not 
stay, 

And  we  left  the  dead  to  the  birds  and 
we  sail’d  with  our  wounded 
away. 

v. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Flowers  . 
their  breath  met  us  out  on  the 
seas, 

For  the  Spring  and  the  middle  Sum- 
mer sat  each  on  the  lap  of  the 
breeze ; 

And  the  red  passion-flower  to  the 
cliffs,  and  the  dark-blue  cle- 
matis, clung, 

And  starr’d  with  a myriad  blossom 
the  long  convolvulus  hung ; 

And  the  topmost  spire  of  the  moun- 
tain was  lilies  in  lieu  of  snow, 

And  the  lilies  like  glaciers  winded 
down,  running  out  below 

Thro’  the  fire  of  the  tulip  and  poppy, 
the  blaze  of  gorse,  and  the 
blush 

Of  millions  of  roses  that  sprang  with- 
out leaf  or  a thorn  from  the 
bush  ; 

And  the  whole  isle-side  flashing  down 
from  the  peak  without  ever  a 
tree 

Swept  like  a torrent  of  gems  from  the 
sky  to  the  blue  of  the  sea ; 

And  we  roll’d  upon  capes  of  crocus 
and  vaunted  our  kith  and  our 
kin, 

And  we  wallow’d  in  beds  of  lilies, 
and  chanted  the  triumph  of 
Finn, 

Till  each  like  a golden  image  was 
pollen’d  from  head  to  feet 

And  each  was  as  dry  as  a cricket, 
with  thirst  in  the  middle-day 
heat. 

Blossom  and  blossom,  and  promise  of 
blossom,  but  never  a fruit ! 

And  we  hated  the  Flowering  Isle,  as 
we  hated  the  isle  that  was  mute. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE . 


585 


\nd  we  tore  up  the  flowers  by  the 
million  and  flung  them  in  bight 
and  bay, 

Vnd  we  left  but  a naked  rock,  and  in 
anger  we  sail’d  away. 

VI. 

Ind  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fruits  : 
all  round  from  the  cliffs  and 
the  capes, 

^rple  or  amber,  dangled  a hundred 
fathom  of  grapes, 

Ind  the  warm  melon  lay  like  a little 
sun  on  the  tawny  sand, 

Ind  the  fig  ran  up  from  the  beach 
and  rioted  over  the  land, 

Ind  the  mountain  arose  like  a jew- 
ell’d  throne  thro’  the  fragrant 
air, 

xlowing  with  all-color’d  plums  and 
with  golden  masses  of  pear, 

Ind  the  crimson  and  scarlet  of  berries 
that  flamed  upon  bine  and  vine, 
$ut  in  every  berry  and  fruit  was  the 
poisonous  pleasure  of  wine ; 

Ind  the  peak  of  the  mountain  was 
apples,  the  hugest  that  ever 
were  seen, 

Ind  they  prest,  as  they  grew,  on  each 
other,  with  hardly  a leaflet  be- 
tween, 

Ind  all  of  them  redder  than  rosiest 
a health  or  than  utterest  shame, 
Bind  setting,  when  Even  descended, 
the  very  sunset  aflame  ; 

And  we  stay’d  three  days,  and  we 
gorged  and  we  madden’d,  till 
? every  one  drew 
lis  sword  on  his  fellow  to  slay  him, 
and  ever  they  struck  and  they 
t2  slew ; 

Lnd  myself,  I had  eaten  but  sparely, 
and  fought  till  I sunder’d  the 
fray, 

’hen  I bade  them  remember  my 

father’s  death,  and  we  sail’d 

! '[  away. 

Ij  vn. 

tnd  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fire : we 
were  lured  by  the  light  from 
afar, 


For  the  peak  sent  up  one  league  of 
fire  to  the  Northern  Star ; 

Lured  by  the  glare  and  the  blare,  but 
scarcely  could  stand  upright, 

For  the  whole  isle  shudder’d  and 
shook  like  a man  in  a mortal 
affright : 

We  were  giddy  besides  with  the  fruits 
we  had  gorged,  and  so  crazed 
that  at  last 

There  were  some  leap’d  into  the  fire ; 
and  away  we  sail’d,  and  we 
past 

Over  that  undersea  isle,  where  the 
water  is  clearer  than  air : 

Down  we  look’d : what  a garden ! 0 
bliss,  what  a Paradise  there  ! 

Towers  of  a happier  time,  low  down 
in  a rainbow  deep 

Silent  palaces,  quiet  fields  of  eternal 
sleep  ! 

And  three  of  the  gentlest  and  best  of 
my  people,  whate’er  I coul 
say, 

Plunged  head  down  in  the^ea,  and 
the  Paradise  trembled  away. 

VIII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Bounteous  Isle, 
where  the  heavens  lean  low  on 
the  land, 

And  ever  at  dawn  from  the  cloud 
glitter’d  o’er  us  a sunbright 
hand, 

Then  it  open’d  and  dropt  at  the  side 
of  each  man,  as  he  rose  from 
his  rest, 

Bread  enough  for  his  need  till  the 
laborless  day  dipt  under  the 
West ; 

And  we  wander’d  about  it  and  thro’ 
it.  0 never  was  time  so 
good  ! 

And  we  sang  of  the  triumphs  of 
Finn,  and  the  boast  of  our 
ancient  blood, 

And  we  gazed  at  the  wandering  wave 
as  we  sat  by  the  gurgle  of 
springs, 

And  we  chanted  the  songs  of  the 
Bards  and  the  glories  of  fairy 
kings ; 


586 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 


But  at  length  we  began  to  be  weary, 
to  sigh,  and  to  stretch  and 
yawn, 

Till  we  hated  the  Bounteous  Isle  and 
the  sunbright  hand  of  the 
dawn, 

For  there  was  not  an  enemy  near,  but 
the  whole  green  Isle  was  our 
own, 

And  we  took  to  playing  at  ball,  and 
we  took  to  throwing  the  stone. 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  battle,  but 
that  was  a perilous  play, 

For  the  passion  of  the  battle  was  in 
us,  we  slew  and  we  sail’d 
away. 

IX. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Witches 
and  heard  their  musical  cry  — 
‘ Come-  to  us,  0 come,  come  ” in  the 
stormy  red  of  a sky 
Dashing  the  fires  and  the  shadows  of 
dawn  on  the  beautiful  shapes, 
For  a wild  witch  naked  as  heaven 
stood  on  each  of  the  loftiest 
capes, 

And  a hundred  ranged  on  the  rock 
like  white  sea-birds  in  a row, 
And  a hundred  gamboll’d  and  pranced 
on  the  wrecks  in  the  sand  be- 
low, 

And  a hundred  splash’d  from  the 
ledges,  and  bosom’d  the  burst 
of  the  spray, 

But  I knew  we  should  fall  on  each 
other,  and  hastily  sail’d  away. 

x. 

And  we  came  in  an  evil  time  to  the 
Isle  of  the  Double  Towers, 

One  was  of  smooth-cut  stone,  one 
carved  all  over  with  flowers, 
But  an  earthquake  always  moved  in 
the  hollows  under  the  dells, 
And  they  shock’d  on  each  other  and 
butted  each  other  with  clashing 
of  bells, 

And  the  daws  flew  out  of  the  Towers 
and  jangled  and  wrangled  in 
vain, 

And  the  clash  and  boom  of  the  bells 
rang  into  the  heart  and  the  brain. 


Till  the  passion  of  battle  was  on  us, 
and  all  took  sides  with  the 
Towers, 

There  were  some  for  the  clean-cut 
stone,  there  were  more  for  the 
carven  flowers, 

And  the  wrathful  thunder  of  God 
peal’d  over  us  all  the  day, 

For  the  one  half  slew  the  other  and 
after  we  sail’d  away. 

XI. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  a Saint 
who  had  sail’d  with  St.  Brendan 
of  yore, 

He  had  lived  ever  since  on  the  Isle 
and  his  winters  were  fifteen  score , 

And  his  voice  was  low  as  from  other 
worlds,  and  his  eyes  were 
sweet, 

And  his  white  hair  sank  to  his  heels 
and  his  white  beard  fell  to  his 
feet, 

And -he  spake  to  me,  “0  Maeldune, 
let  be  this  purpose  of  thine  ! 

Remember  the  words  of  the  Lord 
when  he  told  us  ‘ Vengeance  is 
mine ! ’ 

His  fathers  have  slain  thy  fathers 
in  war  or  in  single  strife, 

Thy  fathers  have  slain  his  fathers 
each  taken  a life  for  a life, 

Thy  father  had  slain  his  father,  how 
long  shall  the  murder  last  ? 

Go  back  to  the  Isle  of  Finn  and  suffei 
the  Past  to  be  Past.” 

And  we  kiss’d  the  fringe  of  his  beard 
and  we  pray’d  as  we  heard  birr 
pray, 

And  the  Holy  man  he  assoil  d us,  and 
sadly  we  sail’d  away. 

XII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  wre  were  blowi 
from,  and  there  on  the  short 
was  he, 

The  man  that  had  slain  my  father.  1 
saw  him  and  let  him  be. 

O weary  was  I of  the  travel,  tin 
trouble,  the  strife  and  the  sin, 

When  I landed  again,  with  a tithe  o! 
my  men,  on  the  Isle  of  Finn. 


DE  PRO  FUND  IS. 


587 


DE  PROFUNDIS: 

THE  TWO  GREETINGS. 

I. 

Jut  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep, 

Where  all  that  wag  to  be,  in  all  that 
was. 

Whirl’d  for  a million  aeons  thro’  the 
vast 

Waste  dawn  of  multitudinous-eddy- 
ing light  — 

Jut  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep, 

Thro’  all  this  changing  world  of 
changeless  law, 

And  every  phase  of  ever-heightening 
life, 

And  nine  long  months  of  antenatal 
gloom, 

With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent  — 
her  dark  orb 

Touch’d  with  earth’s  light  — thou 
comest,  darling  boy ; 

Our  own;  a babe  in  lineament  and 
limb 

Perfect,  and  prophet  of  the  perfect 
man ; 

Whose  face  and  form  are  hers  and 
mine  in  one, 

Indissolubly  married  like  our  love ; 

Live,  and  be  happy  in  thyself,  and 
serve 

This  mortal  race  thy  kin  so  well,  that 
men 

May  bless  thee  as  we  bless  thee,  0 
young  life 

Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark; 
and  may 

The  fated  channel  where  thy  motion 
' lives 

Be  prosperously  shaped,  and  sway  thy 
course 

Along  the  years  of  haste  and  random 
youth 

[Jnshatter’d ; then  full-current  thro’ 
full  man ; 

And  last  in  kindly  curves,  with  gen- 

{ tlest  fall, 

3y  quiet  fields,  a slowly-dying  power. 


To  that  last  deep  where  we  and  thou 
are  still. 

II. 

i. 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep, 

From  that  great  deep,  before  our 
world  begins, 

Whereon  the  Spirit  of  God  moves  as 
he  will  — 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep. 

From  that  true  world  within  the  world 
we  see, 

Whereof  our  world  is  but  the  bound' 
ing  shore  — 

Out  of  the  deep,  Spirit,  out  of  the  deep, 

With  this  ninth  moon,  that  sends  the 
hidden  sun 

Down  yon  dark  sea,  thou  comest, 
darling  boy. 

ii. 

For  in  the  world,  which  is  not  ours, 
They  said 

“ Let  us  make  man  ” and  that  which 
should  be  man, 

From  that  one  light  no  man  can  look 
upon, 

Drew  to  this  shore  lit  by  the  suns  and 
moons 

And  all  the  shadows.  O dear  Spirit 
half-lost 

In  thine  own  shadow  and  this  fleshly 
sign 

That  thou  art  thou  — who  wailest 
being  born 

And  banish’d  into  mystery,  and  the 
pain 

Of  this  divisible-indivisible  world 

Among  the  numerable-innumerable 

Sun,  sun,  and  sun,  thro’  finite-infinite 
space 

In  finite-infinite  Time  — our  mortal 
veil 

And  shatter’d  phantom  of  that  infinite 
One, 

Who  made  thee  unconceivably  Thy- 
self 

Out  of  His  whole  World-self  and  all 
in  all  — 


588 


PREFATORY  SONNET , ETC.  — MONTENEGRO. 


Live  thou ! and  of  the  grain  and  husk, 
the  grape 

And  ivyberry,  choose  ; and  still  depart 

From  death  to  death  thro’  life  and 
life,  and  find 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer  Him,  who 
wrought 

Not  Matter,  nor  the  finite-infinite, 

But  this  main-miracle,  that  thou  art 
thou, 

With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on 
the  world. 

THE  HUMAN  CRY. 

I. 

Hallowed  he  Thy  name  — Halle- 
luiah ! — 

Infinite  Ideality ! 

Immeasurable  Reality ! 

Infinite  Personality ! 

Hallowed  he  Thy  name  — Halleluiah  ! 

ii. 

We  feel  we  are  nothing  — for  all  is 
Thou  and  in  Thee  ; 

We  feel  we  are  something  — that  also 
has  come  from  Thee ; 

We  know  we  are  nothing  — but  Thou 
wilt  help  us  to  he. 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name  — Halleluiah ! 


PREFATORY  SONNET 

TO  THE  “ NINETEENTH  CENTURY.” 

Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and 
fast 

To  touch  all  shores,  now  leaving  to 
the  skill 

Of  others  their  old  craft  seaworthy  still, 

Have  charter’d  this;  where,  mindful 
of  the  past, 

Our  true  co-mates  regather  round  the 
mast ; 

Of  diverse  tongue,  but  with  a com- 
mon will 

Here,  in  this  roaring  moon  of  daffodil 

And  crocus,  to  put  forth  and  brave 
the  blast ; 

For  some,  descending  from  the  sacred 
peak 


Of  hoar  high-templed  Faith,  have 
leagued  again 

Their  lot  with  ours  to  rove  the  world 
about; 

And  some  are  wilder  comrades,  sworn 
to  seek 

If  any  golden  harbor  be  for  men 

In  seas  of  Death  and  sunless  gulfs  of 
Doubt. 


TO  THE  REY.  W.  H.  BROOK- 
FIELD. 

Brooks,  for  they  call’d  you  so  that 
knew  you  best, 

Old  Brooks,  who  loved  so  well  to 
mouth  my  rhymes, 

How  oft  we  two  have  heard  St.  Mary’s 
chimes ! 

How  oft  the  Cantab  supper,  host  and 
guest, 

Would  echo  helpless  laughter  to  youi 
jest! 

How  oft  with  him  we  paced  that  walk 
of  lines, 

Him,  the  lost  light  of  those  dawn- 
golden  times, 

Who  loved  you  well ! Now  both  are 
gone  to  rest. 

You  man  of  humorous-melancholy 
mark, 

Dead  of  some  inward  agony  — is  it  so  1 

Our  kindlier,  trustier  Jaques,  pasi 
away  ! 

I cannot  laud  this  life,  it  looks  so  dark 

2/cms  uuap  — dream  of  a shadow,  go  — 

God  bless  you.  I shall  join  you  in  a uay 


MONTENEGRO. 

They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagl 
sails, 

They  kept  their  faith,  their  freedom 
on  the  height, 

Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  arm’d  by  da; 
and  night 

Against  the  Turk ; whose  inroad  nc 
where  scales 

Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  fooi 
step  ?ails. 


BATTLE  OT  BRUNANBURH. 


589 


nd  red  with  blood  the  Crescent  reels 
from  tight 

efore  their  dauntless  hundreds,  in 
prone  flight 

v thousands  down  the  crags  and 
thro’  the  vales. 

smallest  among  peoples ! rough 
rock-throne 

f Freedom  ! warriors  beating  back 
the  swarm 

f Turkish  Islam  for  five  hundred 
years, 

reat  Tsernogora ! never  since  thine 
own 

lack  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  brake 
the  storm 

as  breathed  a race  of  mightier 
mountaineers. 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 
ictor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance, 
loud-weaver  of  phantasmal  hopes 
and  fears. 


French  of  the  French,  and  Lord  of 
human  tears  ; 

Child-lover;  Bard  whose  fame-lit 
laurels  glance 

Darkening  the  wreaths  of  all  that 
would  advance, 

Beyond  our  strait,  their  claim  to  be 
thy  peers ; 

Weird  Titan  by  thy  winter  weight  of 
years 

As  yet  unbroken,  Stormy  voice  of 
France ! 

Who  dost  not  love  our  England  — so 
they  say ; 

I know  not  — England,  France,  all 
man  to  be 

Will  make' one  people  ere  man’s  race 
be  run : 

And  I,  desiring  that  diviner  day, 

Yield  thee  full  thanks  for  thy  full 
courtesy 

To  younger  England  in  the  boy  my 
son. 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 

Constantinus,  King  of  the  Scots,  after 
.ving  sworn  allegiance  to  Athelstan,  allied 
mself  with  the  Danes  of  Ireland  under 
nlaf,  and  invading  England,  was  defeated 
. Athelstan  and  his  brother  Edmund  with 
eat  slaughter  at  Brunanburh  in  the  year 
7. 

I. 

1 Athelstan  King, 

Lord  among  Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower  and 
Baron  of  Barons, 

He  with  his  brother, 
i Edmund  Atheling, 

Gaining  a lifelong 
Glory  in  battle, 

1 I have  more  or  less  availed  myself  of  my 
n’s  prose  translation  of  this  poem  in  the 
mtemporary  Review  (November  18761. 


Slew  with  the  sword-edge 
There  by  Brunanburh, 

Brake  the  shield-wall, 

Hew’d  the  linden-wood,1 
Hack’d  the  battleshield, 

Sons  of  Edward  with  hammer’d  brands. 

ii. 

Theirs  was  a greatness 
Got  from  their  Grandsires  — 
Theirs  that  so  often  in 
Strife  with  their  enemies 
Struck  for  their  hoards  and  theii 
hearths  and  their  homes. 

in 

Bow’d  the  spoiler, 

Bent  the  Scotsman, 

1 Shields  of  lindenwood. 


590 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 


Fell  the  shipcrews 
Doom’d  to  the  death. 

All  the  field  with  blood  of  the  fighters 
Flow’d,  from  whenfirst  the  great 
Sun-star  of  morningtide, 

Lamp  of  the  Lord  God 
Lord  everlasting, 

Glode  over  earth  till  the  glorious 
creature 

Sank  to  his  setting. 

IV. 

There  lay  many  a man 
Marr’d  by  the  javelin, 

Men  of  the  Northland 
Shot  over  shield. 

There  was  the  Scotsman 
Weary  of  war. 

v. 

We  the  West-Saxons, 

Long  as  the  daylight 
Lasted,  in  companies 
Troubled  the  track  of  the  host  that 
we  hated, 

Grimly  with  swords  that  were  sharp 
from  the  grindstone, 

Fiercely  we  hack’d  at  the  flyers  before 


Mighty  the  Mercian, 

Hard  was  his  hand-play, 
Sparing  not  any  of 
Those  that  with  Anlaf, 
Warriors  over  the 
Weltering  waters 
Borne  in  the  bark’s-bosom, 
Drew  to  this  island  : 

Doom’d  to  the  death. 

VII. 

Five  young  kings  put  asleep  by  the 
sword-stroke, 

Seven  strong  Earls  of  the  army  of 
Anlaf 

Fell  on  the  war-field,  numberless 
numbers, 

Shipmen  and  Scotsmen. 

VIII. 

Then  the  Norse  leader, 

Dire  was  his  need  of  it, 

Few  were  his  following, 


Fled  to  his  warship: 

Fleeted  his  vessel  to  sea  with  the  kin; 
in  it, 

Saving  his  life  on  the  fallow  flood. 

IX. 

Also  the  crafty  one, 
Constantinus, 

Crept  to  his  North  again, 
Hoar-headed  hero ! 
x. 

Slender  warrant  had 
He  to  be  proud  of 
The  welcome  of  war-knives  — 
He  that  was  reft  of  his 
, Folk  and  his  friends  that  had 
Fallen  in  conflict, 

Leaving  his  son  too 
Lost  in  the  carnage. 

Mangled  to  morsels, 

A youngster  in  war ! 

XI. 

Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  glad  of 

The  clash  of  the  war-glaive  — 

Traitor  and  trickster 

And  spurner  of  treaties  — 

He  nor  had  Anlaf 
With  armies  so  broken 
A reason  for  bragging 
That  they  had  the  better 
In  perils  of  battle 
On  places  of  slaughter  — 

The  struggle  of  standards. 
The  rush  of  the  javelins, 

The  crash  of  the  charges,1 
The  wielding  of  weapons  — 
The  play  that  they  play’d  wit 
The  children  of  Edward. 

XII. 

Then  witli  their  nail’d  prows 
Parted  the  Norsemen,  a 
Blood-redden’d  relic  of 
Javelins  over 

The  jarring  breaker,  the  dee 
sea  billow, 

Shaping  their  way  toward  D 
flen  2 again, 

Shamed  in  their  souls. 

1 Lit.  “ the  gathering  of  men.*'  2 Dublin 


ACHILLES  OVER  7 HE  TRENCH. 


591 


XIII. 

Also  the  brethren, 

King  and  Atheling, 

Each  in  his  glory, 

Yent  to  his  own  in  his  own  West- 
Saxonland, 

Glad  of  the  war. 

XI Y. 

dany  a carcase  they  left  to  be  carrion, 

dany  a livid  one,  many  a sallow- 
skin  — 

^eft  for  the  white-tail’d  eagle  to  tear 
it,  and 

Oeft  for  the  horny-nibb’d  raven  to 
rend  it,  and 

lave  to  the  garbaging  war-hawk  to 
gorge  it,  and 

Chat  gray  beast,  the  wolf  of  the  weald, 
xv. 

Never  had  huger 
Slaughter  of  heroes 
Slain  by  the  sword-edge  — 

Such  as  old  writers 
Have  writ  of  in  histories  — 
Hapt  in  this  isle,  since 
Up  from  the  East  hither 
Saxon  and  Angle  from 
Over  the  broad  billow 
Broke  into  Britain  with 
Haughty  war-workers  who 
Harried  the  Welshman,  when 
Earls  that  were  lured  by  the 
Hunger  of  glory  gat 
Hold  of  the  land. 


ACHILLES  OYER  THE 
TRENCH. 

iliad,  xviii.  202. 

o saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass’d  away. 

'lien  rose  Achilles  dear  to  Zeus  ; and 
round 

'he  warrior’s  puissant  shoulders  Pallas 
i flung 

ter  fringed  aegis,  and  around  his 
head 

ttfhe  glorious  goddess  wreath’d  a 
golden  cloud, 


And  from  it  lighted  an  all-shining 
flame. 

As  when  a smoke  from  a city  goes  to 
heaven 

Ear  off  from  out  an  island  girt  by 
foes, 

All  day  the  men  contend  in  grievous 
war 

From  their  own  city,  but  with  set  of 
sun 

Their  fires  flame  thickly,  and  aloft  the 
glare 

Elies  streaming,  if  perchance  the 
neighbors  round 

May  see,  and  sail  to  help  them  in  the 
war ; 

So  from  his  head  the  splendor  went 
to  heaven. 

From  wall  to  dyke  he  stept,  he  stood, 
nor  join’d 

The  Achaeans  — honoring  his  wise 
mother’s  word  — 

There  standing,  shouted,  and  Pallas 
far  away 

Call’d ; and  a boundless  panic  shook 
the  foe. 

For  like  the  clear  voice  when  a trum- 
pet shrills, 

Blown  by  the  fierce  beleaguerers  of  a 
town, 

So  rang  the  clear  voice  of  JEakides  ; 

And  when  the  brazen  cry  of  JEakides 

Was  heard  among  the  Trojans,  all 
their  hearts 

Were  troubled,  and  the  full-maned 
horses  whirl’d 

The  chariots  backward,  knowing  griefs 
at  hand ; 

And  sheer-astounded  were  the  chari- 
oteers 

To  see  the  dread,  unweariable  fire 

That  always  o’er  the  great  Peleion’s 
head 

Burn’d,  for  the  bright-eyed  goddess 
made  it  burn. 

Thrice  from  the  dyke  he  sent  his 
mighty  shout, 

Thrice  backward  reel’d  the  Trojans 
and  allies ; 

And  there  and  then  twelve  of  their 
noblest  died 

Among  their  spears  and  chariots. 


592 


/ 

TO  THE  PRINCESS  FREDERICA  — TO  DANTE. 


TO  PRINCESS  FREDERICA 
ON  HER  MARRIAGE. 

O you  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the 
King  till  lie  past  away 
From  the  darkness  of  life  — 

He  saw  not  his  daughter  — he  blest 
her:  the  blind  King  sees  you 
to-day, 

He  blesses  the  wife. 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN 

ON  THE  CENOTAPH  IN  WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY. 

Not  here  ! the  white  North  has  thi 
bones ; and  thou, 

Heroic  sailor-soul, 

Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyag< 
now 

Toward  no  earthly  pole. 


TO  DANTE. 

(written  AT  REQUEST  OF  THE  FLORENTINES.) 

King,  that  hast  reign’d  six  hundred  years,  and  grown 
In  power,  and  ever  growest,  since  thine  own 
Fair  Florence  honoring  thy  nativity, 

Thy  Florence  now  the  crown  of  Italy, 

Hath  sought  the  tribute  of  a verse  from  me, 

I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a day, 

Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower  that  fades  away 


TIRESIAS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


TO  MY  GOOD  FRIEND 

ROBERT  BROWNING, 

WHOSE  GENIUS  AND  GENIALITY 
WILL  BEST  APPRECIATE  WHAT  MAY  BE  BEST, 

AND  MAKE  MOST  ALLOWANCE  FOR  WHAT  MAY  BE  WORST, 
THIS  VOLUME 

IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED. 


TO  E.  FITZGERALD. 

ld  Fitz,  who  from  your  suburb 
grange, 

Where  once  I tarried  for  a while, 
lance  at  the  wheeling  Orb  of  change, 
And  greet  it  with  a kindly  smile ; 
ifhom  yet  I see  as  there  you  sit 
Beneath  your  sheltering  garden- 
tree, 

nd  watch  your  doves  about  you  flit, 
And  plant  on  shoulder,  hand  and 
knee, 

r on  your  head  their  rosy  feet, 

As  if  they  knew  your  diet  spares 
Whatever  moved  in  that  full  sheet 
Let  down  to  Peter  at  his  prayers; 
/To  live  on  milk  and  meal  and 
grass  ; 

And  once  for  ten  long  weeks  I tried 
our  table  of  Pythagoras, 

And  seem’d  at  first  ‘ a thing  en- 
skied’ 

\s  Shakespeare  has  it)  airy-light 
To  float  above  the  ways  of  men, 
hen  fell  from  that  half-spiritual 
height 

Chill’d,  till  I tasted  flesh  again 


One  night  when  earth  was  winter- 
black, 

And  all  the  heavens  flash’d  in  frost ; 

And  on  me,  half-asleep,  came  back 
That  wholesome  heat  the  blood  had 
lost, 

And  set  me  climbing  icy  capes 

And  glaciers,  over  which  there 
roll’d 

To  meet  me  long-arm’d  vines  with 
grapes 

Of  Eshcol  hugeness  ; for  the  cold 

Without,  and  warmth  within  me, 
wrought 

To  mould  the  dream  ; but  none  can 
say 

That  Lenten  fare  makes  Lenten 
thought, 

Who  reads  your  golden  Eastern 
lay, 

Than  which  I know  no  version  done 
In  English  more  divinely  well; 

A planet  equal  to  the  sun 

Which  cast  it,  that  large  infidel 

Your  Omar;  and  your  Omar  drew 
Full-handed  plaudits  from  our  best 

In  modern  letters,  arid  from  two, 

Old  friends  outvaluing  all  the  rest, 


594 


TIRESIAS. 


Two  voices  heard  on  earth  no  more ; 

But  we  old  friends  are  still  alive, 
And  I am  nearing  seventy-four, 

While  you  have  touch’d  at  seventy- 
five, 

And  so  I send  a birthday  line 

Of  greeting;  and  my  son,  who  dipt 
In  some  forgotten  book  of  mine 
With  sallow  scraps  of  manuscript, 
And  dating  many  a year  ago, 

Has  hit  on  this,  which  you  will  take, 
My  Fitz,  and  welcome,  as  I know 
Less  for  its  own  than  for  the  sake 
Of  one  recalling  gracious  times, 

When,  in  our  younger  London  days, 
You  found  some  merit  in  my  rhymes, 
And  I more  pleasure  in  your  praise. 


TIRESIAS. 

I wish  I were  as  in  the  years  of  old, 

While  yet  the  blessed  daylight  made 
itself 

Ruddy  thro’  both  the  roofs  of  sight, 
and  woke 

These  eyes,  now  dull,  but  then  so 
keen  to  seek 

The  meanings  ambush’d  under  all 
they  saw, 

The  flight  of  birds,  the  flame  of  sac- 
rifice, 

What  omens  may  foreshadow  fate  to 
man 

And  woman,  and  the  secret  of  the  Gods. 

My  son,  the  Gods,  despite  of  human 
prayer, 

Are  slower  to  forgive  than  human 
kings. 

The  great  God,  Ares,  burns  in  anger 
still 

Against  the  guiltless  heirs  of  him 
from  Tyre, 

Our  Cadmus,  out  of  whom  thou  art, 
who  found 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dirce,  smote, 
and  still’d 

Thro’  all  its  folds  the  multitudinous 
beast, 

The  dragon,  which  our  trembling 
fathers  call’d 

The  God’s  own  son. 


A tale,  that  told  to  me 
When  but  thine  age,  by  age  as  win 


ter-white 

As  mine  is  now,  amazed,  but  made 
me  yearn 

For  larger  glimpses  of  that  mor< 
than  man 
Which  rolls  the  heavens,  and  lifts 
and  lays  the  deep, 

Yet  loves  and  hates  with  mortal  hate 
and  loves, 

And  moves  unseen  among  the  way 
of  men. 

Then,  in  my  wanderings  all  th 
lands  that  lie 


Subjected  to  the  Heliconian  ridge 
Have  heard  this  footstep  fall,  althc 


my  wont 

Was  more  to  scale  the  highest  of  th 
heights 

With  some  strange  hope  to  see  th 


nearer  God. 

One  naked  peak  — the  sister  of  th 
sun 

Would  climb  from  out  the  dark,  an 
linger  there 

To  silver  all  the  valleys  with  h< 
shafts  — 

There  once,  but  long  ago,  five-fol 


thy  term 

Of  years,  I lay ; the  winds  were  des 
for  heat ; 

The  noonday  crag  made  the  har 
burn ; and  sick 

For  shadow  — not  one  bush  was  ne; 


— I rose 

Following  a torrent  till  its  myriad  fa] 

Found  silence  in  the  hollows  unde 
neath. 

There  in  a secret  olive-glade  I s i 

Pallas  Athene  climbing  from  t 
bath 

In  anger ; yet  one  glittering  foot  d 
turb’d 

The  lucid  well ; one  snowy  knee  w 
prest 

Against  the  margin  flowers  ; a dre.r 
fill  light 

Came  from  her  golden  hair,  her  go 
en  helm 

And  all  her  golden  armor  on  t 


grass, 


T/RESIAS. 


595 


Lnd  from  her  virgin  breast,  and  vir- 
gin eyes 

Remaining  fixt  on  mine,  till  mine 
grew  dark 

i'or  ever,  and  I heard  a voice  that 
said 

Henceforth  be  blind,  for  thou  hast 
ceen  too  much, 

Lnd  speak  the  truth  that  no  man  may 
believe/ 

Son,  in  the  hidden  world  of  sight, 
that  lives 

Jehind  this  darkness,  I behold  her 
still, 

leyond  all  work  of  those  who  carve 
the  stone, 

Jeyond  all  dreams  of  Godlike  woman- 
hood, 

neffable  beauty,  out  of  whom,  at  a 
glance, 

ind  as  it  were,  perforce,  upon  me 
flash’d 

'he  power  of  prophesying  — but  to 
me 

Jo  power  — so  chain’d  and  coupled 
with  the  curse 

)f  blindness  and  their  unbelief,  who 
heard 

tnd  heard  not,  when  I spake  of  fam- 
ine, plague, 

hrine-shattering  earthquake,  fire, 
flood,  thunderbolt, 

md  angers  of  the  Gods  for  evil 
done 

tnd  expiation  lack’d  — no  power  on 
Fate, 

'heirs,  or  mine  own!  for  when  the 
crowd  would  roar 

'or  blood,  for  war,  whose  issue  was 
their  doom, 

'o  cast  wise  words  among  the  multi- 
tude 

Vas  flinging  fruit  to  lions;  nor,  in 
hours 

f f civil  outbreak,  when  I knew  the 
twain 

Vould  each  waste  each,  and  bring  on 
both  the  yoke 

f stronger  states,  was  mine  the  voice 
to  curb 

I he  madness  of  our  cities  and  their 
kings. 


Who  ever  turn’d  upon  his  heel  to 
hear 

My  warning  that  the  tyranny  of  one 

Was  prelude  to  the  tyranny  of  all  ? 

My  counsel  that  the  tyranny  of  all 

Led  backward  to  the  tyranny  of  one  ? 

This  power  hath  work’d  no  good  to 
aught  that  lives, 

And  these  blind  hands  were  useless  in 
their  wars. 

O therefore  that  the  unfulfill’d  desire, 

The  grief  for  ever  born  from  griefs 
to  be, 

The  boundless  yearning  of  the  Proph- 
et’s heart  — 

Could  that  stand  forth,  and  like  a 
statue,  rear’d 

To  some  great  citizen,  win  all  praise 
from  all 

Who  past  it,  saying,  * That  was  he  ! ’ 
In  vain  ! 

Virtue  must  shape  itself  in  deed,  and 
those 

Whom  weakness  or  necessity  have 
cramp’d 

Within  themselves,  immerging,  each, 
his  urn 

In  his  own  well,  draw  solace  as  he 
may. 

Menaceus,  thou  hast  eyes,  and  I 
can  hear 

Too  plainly  what  full  tides  of  onset 
sap 

Our  seven  high  gates,  and  what  a 
weight  of  war 

Rides  on  those  ringing  axles!  jingle 
of  bits, 

Shouts,  arrows,  tramp  of  the  horn- 
footed horse 

That  grind  the  glebe  to  powder! 
Stony  showers 

Of  that  ear-stunning  hail  of  Ares 
crash 

Along  the  sounding  walls.  Above, 
below, 

Shock  after  shock,  the  song-built 
towers  and  gates 

Reel,  bruised  and  butted  with  the 
shuddering 

War-thunder  of  iron  rams;  and  from 
within 

The  city  comes  a murmur  void  of  joy, 


596 


TIRESIAS. 


Lest  she  be  taken  captive  — maidens, 
wives, 

And  mothers  with  their  babblers  of 
the  dawn, 

And  oldest  age  in  shadow  from  the 
night, 

Falling  about  their  shrines  before 
their  Gods, 

And  wailing  ‘ Save  us/ 

And  they  wail  to  thee ! 

These  eyeless  eyes,  that  cannot  see 
thine  own, 

See  this,  that  only  in  thy  virtue  lies 

The  saving  of  our  Thebes ; for,  yes- 
ternight, 

To  me,  the  great  God  Ares,  whose 
one  bliss 

Is  war,  and  human  sacrifice  — himself 

Blood-red  from  battle,  spear  and 
helmet  tipt 

With  stormy  light  as  on  a mast  at 
sea, 

Stood  out  before  a darkness,  crying 
‘ Thebes, 

Thy  Thebes  shall  fall  and  perish,  for 
I loathe 

The  seed  of  Cadmus  — yet  if  one  of 
these 

By  his  own  hand  — if  one  of  these ’ 

My  son, 

No  sound  is  breathed  so  potent  to 
coerce, 

And  to  conciliate,  as  their  names  who 
dare 

For  that  sweet  motherland  which  gave 
them  birth 

Nobly  to  do,  nobly  to  die.  Their 
names, 

Graven  on  memorial  columns,  are  a 
song 

Heard  in  the  future;  few,  but  more 
than  wall 

And  rampart,  their  examples  reach  a 

. hand 

Far  thro’  all  years,  and  everywhere 
they  meet 

And  kindle  generous  purpose,  and  the 
strength 

To  mould  it  into  action  pure  as  theirs. 

Fairer  thy  fate  than  mine,  if  life’s 
best  end 

Be  to  end  well ! and  thou  refusing  this, 


Unvenerable  will  thy  memory  be 

While  men  shall  move  the  lips:  but 
if  thou  dare  — 

Thou,  one  of  these,  the  race  of  Cad- 
mus  — then 

No  stone  is  fitted  in  yon  marble  girth 

Whose  echo  shall  not  tongue  thy 
glorious  doom, 

Nor  in  this  pavement  but  shall  ring 
thy  name 

To  every  hoof  that  clangs  it,  and  the 
springs 

Of  Dirce  laving  yonder  battle-plain, 

Heard  from  the  roofs  by  night,  will 
murmur  thee 

To  thine  own  Thebes,  while  Thebes 
thro’  thee  shall  stand 

Firm-based  with  all  her  Gods. 

The  Dragon’s  cave 

Half  hid,  they  tell  me,  now  in  flowing 
vines  — 

Where  once  he  dwelt  and  whence  he 
roll’d  himself 

At  dead  of  night  — thou  knowest,  and 
that  smooth  rock 

Before  it,  altar-fashion’d,  where  of  late 

The  woman-breasted  Sphinx,  with 
wings  drawn  back, 

Folded  her  lion  paws,  and  look’d  to 
Thebes. 

There  blanch  the  bones  of  him  she 
slew,  and  these 

Mixt  with  her  own,  because  the  fierce 
beast  found 

A wiser  than  herself,  and  dash’d  her- 
self 

Dead  in  her  rage : but  thou  art  wise 
enough, 

Tho’  young,  to  love  thy  wiser,  blunl 
the  curse 

Of  Pallas,  hear,  and  tho’  I speak  the 
truth 

Believe  I speak  it,  let  thine  own  hant 
strike 

Thy  youthful  pulses  into  rest  anc 
quench 

The  red  God’s  anger,  fearing  not  t( 
plunge 

Thy  torch  of  life  in  darkness,  rathei 
— thou 

Rejoicing  that  the  sun,  the  moon,  the 
stars 


THE  WRECK. 


597 


*end  no  such  light  upon  the  ways  of 
men 

Ls  one  great  deed. 

Thither,  my  son,  and  there 
'hou,  that  hast  never  known  the  em- 
brace of  love, 

)ffer  thy  maiden  life. 

This  useless  hand ! 
felt  one  warm  tear  fall  upon  it. 
Gone ! 

le  will  achieve  his  greatness. 

But  for  me, 

would  that  I were  gather’d  to  my  rest, 
ind  mingled  with  the  famous  kings 
of  old, 

>n  whom  about  their  ocean-islands 
flash 

'he  faces  of  the  Gods  — the  wise 
man’s  word, 

[ere  trampled  by  the  populace  under- 
foot, 

'here  crown’d  with  worship  — and 
these  eyes  will  find 
lie  men  I knew,  and  watch  the 
chariot  whirl 

bout  the  goal  again,  and  hunters  race 
'he  shadowy  lion,  and  the  warrior- 
kings, 

1 height  and  prowess  more  than  hu- 
man, strive 

gain  for  glory,  while  the  golden  lyre 
; ever  sounding  in  heroic  ears 
eroic  hymns,  and  every  way  the  vales 
find,  clouded  with  the  grateful 
incense-fume 

f those  who  mix  all  odor  to  the  Gods 
n one  far  height  in  one  far-shining 
fire. 


0; 


* One  height  and  one  far-shining  fire’ 
And  while  I fancied  that  my  friend 
For  this  brief  idyll  would  require 
A less  diffuse  and  opulent  end, 

And  would  defend  his  judgment  well, 
If  I should  deem  it  over  nice  — 

The  tolling  of  his  funeral  bell 
Broke  on  my  Pagan  Paradise, 

And  mixt  the  dream  of  classic  times, 
And  all  the  phantoms  of  the  dream, 
With  present  grief,  and  made  the 
rhymes, 

That  miss’d  his  living  welcome, 
seem 

Like  would-be  guests  an  hour  too 
late, 

Who  down  the  highway  moving  on 
With  easy  laughter  find  the  gate 
Is  bolted,  and  the  master  gone. 
Gone  into  darkness,  that  full  light 
Of  friendship  ! past,  in  sleep,  away 
By  night,  into  the  deeper  night! 

The  deeper  night  ? A clearer  day 
Than  our  poor  twilight  dawn  on 
earth  — 

If  night,  what  barren  toil  to  be ! 
What  life,  so  maim’d  by  night,  were 
worth 

Our  living  out  ? Not  mine  to  me 
Remembering  all  the  golden  hours 
Now  silent,  and  so  many  dead, 

And  him  the  last ; and  laying  flowers, 
This  wreath,  above  his  honor’d 
head, 

And  praying  that,  when  I from  hence 
Shall  fade  with  him  into  the  urn 
known, 

My  close  of  earth’s  experience 

May  prove  as  peaceful  as  his  own. 


r; 

THE  WRECK. 


Hide  me,  Mother!  my  Fathers  belong’d  to  the  church  of  old, 

I am  driven  by  storm  and  sin  and  death  to  the  ancient  fold, 

I cling  to  the  Catholic  Cross  once  more,  to  the  Faith  that  saves, 
My  brain  is  full  of  the  crash  of  wrecks,  and  the  roar  of  waves, 

My  life  itself  is  a wreck,  I have  sullied  a noble  name, 

I am  flung  from  the  rushing  tide  of  the  world  as  a waif  of  shame, 


598 


THE  WRECK . 


I am  roused  by  the  wail  of  a child,  and  awake  to  a livid  light, 

And  a ghastlier  face  than  ever  has  haunted  a grave  by  night, 

I would  hide  from  the  storm  without,  I would  flee  from  the  storm  within, 
I would  make  my  life  one  prayer  for  a soul  that  died  in  his  sin, 

I was  the  tempter,  Mother,  and  mine  was  the  deeper  fall; 

I will  sit  at  your  feet,  I will  hide  my  face,  I will  tell  you  all. 


He  that  they  gave  me  to,  Mother,  a heedless  and  innocent  bride 
I never  have  wrong’d  his  heart,  I have  only  wounded  his  pride  — 

Spain  in  his  blood  and  the  Jew — dark-visaged,  stately  and  tall  — 

A princelier-looking  man  never  stept  thro’  a Princes  hall. 

And  who,  when  his  anger  was  kindled,  would  venture  to  give  him  the  nay  . 
And  a man  men  fear  is  a man  to  be  loved  by  the  women  they  say. 

And  I could  have  loved  him  too,  if  the  blossom  can  doat  on  the  blight, 

Or  the  young  green  leaf  rejoice  in  the  frost  that  sears  it  at  night , 

He  would  open  the  books  that  I prized,  and  toss  them  away  with  a yawn, 
Repell’d  by  the  magnet  of  Art  to  the  which  my  nature  was  drawn, 

The  word  of  the  Poet  by  whom  the  deeps  of  the  world  are  stirr  d. 

The  music  that  robes  it  in  language  beneath  and  beyond  the  word . 

My  Shelley  would  fall  from  my  hands  when  he  cast  a contemptuous  glance 
From  where  he  was  poring  over  his  Tables  of  Trade  and  finance; 

My  hands,  when  I heard  him  coming  would  drop  from  the  chords  or  the  key; 
But  ever  I fail’d  to  please  him,  however  I strove  to  please  — 

All  day  long  far-off  in  the  cloud  of  the  city,  and  there 

Lost  head  and  heart,  in  the  chances  of  dividend,  consol,  and  share 

And  at  home  if  I sought  for  a kindly  caress,  being  woman  and  weak, 

His  formal  kiss  fell  chill  as  a flake  of  snow  on  the  cheek: 

And  so,  when  I bore  him  a girl,  when  I held  it  aloft  in  my  joy, 

He  look’d  at  it  coldly,  and  said  to  me  “ Pity  it  isn’t  a boy. 

The  one  thing  given  me,  to  love  and  to  live  for,  glanced  at  in  scorn . 

The  child  that  I felt  I could  die  for  — as  if  she  were  basely  born! 

I had  lived  a wild-flower  life,  I was  planted  now  in  a tomb; 

The  daisy  will  shut  to  the  shadow,  I closed  my  heart  to  the  gloom; 

I threw  myself  all  abroad  — I would  play  my  part  with  the  young 

By  the  low  fuot-lights  of  the  world  — and  I caught  the  wreatli  that  was  flun 


Mother,  1 have  not  — however  their  tongues  may  have  babbled  of  me- 
Sinn’d  thro’  an  animal  vileness,  for  all  but  a dwarf  was  he. 

And  all  but  a hunchback  too  ; and  I look’d  at  him,  first,  askance 
With  pity  — not  he  the  knight  for  an  amorous  girl’s  romance ! 

Tho’  wealthy  enough  to  have  bask’d  in  the  light  of  a dowerless  smile, 
Having  lands  at  home  and  abroad  in  a rich  West-Indian  isle ; 

But  I came  on  him  once  at  a ball,  the  heart  of  a listening  crow 
Why,  what  a brow  was  there!  he  was  seated — speaking  aloud 
To  women,  the  flower  of  the  time,  and  men  at  the  helm  ot  state 
Flowing  with  easy  greatness  and  touching  on  all  things  great, 

Science,  philosophy,  song  — till  I felt  myself  ready  to  weep 

For  I knew  not  what,  when  I heard  that  voice,  — as  mellow  and  deep 


THE  WRECK . 


599 


:s  a psalm  by  a mighty  master  and  peal’d  from  an  organ,  — roll 
Using  and  falling  — for,  Mother,  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  soul; 
md  the  sun  of  the  soul  made  day  in  the  dark  of  his  wonderful  eyes. 

[ere  was  the  hand  that  would  help  me,  would  heal  me  — the  heart  that  was 
wise ! 

md  he,  poor  man,  when  he  learnt  that  I hated  the  ring  I wore, 
le  helpt  me  with  death,  and  he  heal’d  me  with  sorrow  forevermore. 

IV. 

or  I broke  the  bond.  That  day  my  nurse  had  brought  me  the  child. 

’he  small  sweet  face  was  flush’d,  but  it  coo’d  to  the  Mother  and  smiled. 
Anything  ailing,”  I ask’d  her,  “ with  baby  ? ” She  shook  her  head, 
vnd  the  Motherless  Mother  kiss’d  it,  and  turn’d  in  her  haste  and  fled. 


v. 

iOw  warm  winds  had  gently  breathed  us  away  from  the  land  — 

.'en  long  sweet  summer  days  upon  deck,  sitting  hand  in  hand  — 

Phen  he  clothed  a naked  mind  with  the  wisdom  and  wealth  of  his  own, 
nd  I bow’d  myself  down  as  a slave  to  his  intellectual  throne, 

Phen  he  coin’d  into  English  gold  some  treasure  of  classical  song, 

Phen  he  flouted  a statesman’s  error,  or  flamed  at  a public  wrong, 

Phen  he  rose  as  it  were  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle  beyond  me,  and  past 
>ver  the  range  and  the  change  of  the  world  from  the  first  to  the  last, 

Phen  he  spoke  of  his  tropical  home  in  the  canes  by  the  purple  tide, 
md  the  high  star-crowns  of  his  palms  on  the  deep-wooded  mountain-side, 
md  cliffs  all  robed  in  lianas  that  dropt  to  the  brink  of  his  bay, 
md  trees  like  the  towers  of  a minster,  the  sons  of  a winterless  day. 

Paradise  there ! ” so  he  said,  but  I seem’d  in  Paradise  then 

Pith  the  first  great  love  I had  felt  for  the  first  and  greatest  of  men, 

'en  long  days  of  summer  and  sin  — if  it  must  be  so  — 
ut  days  of  a larger  light  than  I ever  again  shall  know  — 

>ays  that  will  glimmer,  I fear,  thro’  life  to  my  latest  breath; 

No  frost  there,”  so  he  said,  “as  in  truest  Love  no  Death.” 

vi. 

[other,  one  morning  a bird  with  a warble  plaintively  sweet 

erch’d  on  the  shrouds,  and  then  fell  fluttering  down  at  my  feet; 

took  it,  he  made  it  a cage,  we  fondled  it,  Stephen  and  I, 

ut  it  died,  and  I thought  of  the  child  for  a moment,  I scarce  know  why. 

VII. 

ut  if  sin  be  sin,  not  inherited  fate,  as  many  will  say, 

[y  sin  to  my  desolate  little  one  found  me  at  sea  on  a day, 

Then  her  orphan  wail  came  borne  in  the  shriek  of  a growing  wind, 

nd  a voice  rang  out  in  the  thunders  of  Ocean  and  Heaven  “ Thou  hast  sinn’d.” 

nd  down  in  the  cabin  were  we,  for  the  towering  crest  of  the  tides 

lunged  on  the  vessel  and  swept  in  a cataract  off  from  her  sides, 

nd  ever  the  great  storm  grew  with  a howl  and  a hoot  of  the  blast 

1 the  rigging,  voices  of  hell  — then  came  the  crash  of  the  mast. 


THE  WRECK. 


oOO 


“ The  wages  of  sin  is  death,”  and  then  I began  to  weep, 

“ I am  the  Jonah,  the  crew  should  cast  me  into  the  deep, 

For  ah  God,  what  a heart  was  mine  to  forsake  her  even  for  you.  * ^ 

“ Never  the  heart  among  women,”  he  said,  “ more  tender  and  true. 

“ The  heart!  not  a mother’s  heart,  when  I left  my  darling  alone.  ^ 

“ Comfort  yourself,  for  the  heart  of  the  father  will  care  for  his  own. 

« 'phe  heart  of  the  father  will  spurn  her,”  I cried,  “ for  the  sin  of  the  wife, 
The  cloud  of  the  mother’s  shame  will  enfold  her  and  darken  her  l1!6* 

Then  his  pale  face  twitch’d ; “ O Stephen,  I love  you,  I love  you,  and  yet 
As  I lean’d  away  from  his  arms  — “would  God,  we  had  never  met! 

And  he  spoke  not  — only  the  storm;  till  after  a little,  I yearn  d 
For  his  voice  again,  and  he  call’d  to  me  “ Kiss  me  ! ” and  there  as 
“ The  heart,  the  heart ! ” I kiss’d  him,  I clung  to  the  sinking  form, 

And  the  storm  went  roaring  above  us,  and  he  — was  out  of  the  storm. 


I turn’d- 


VIII. 

And  then,  then,  Mother,  the  ship  stagger’d  under  a thunderous  shock, 

That  sh-ok  us  asunder,  as  if  she  had  struck  and  crash’d  on  a rock  ; 

For  a huge  sea  smote  every  soul  from  the  decks  of  The  * alcon  but  one ; 

All  of  them,  all  but  the  man  that  was  lash’d  to  the  helm  had  gone; 

And  I fell  — and  the  storm  and  the  days  went  by,  but  I knew  no  more 
Lost  myself — lay  like  the  dead  by  the  dead  on  the  cabin  floor, 

Dead  to  the  death  beside  me,  and  lost  to  the  loss  that  was  mine, 

With  a dim  dream,  now  and  then,  of  a hand  giving  bread  and  wine, 

Till  I woke  from  the  trance,  and  the  ship  stood  still,  and  the  skies  were  blue 
But  the  face  I had  known,  O Mother,  was  not  the  face  that  I knew. 

IX. 

The  strange  misfeaturing  mask  that  I saw  so  amazed  me,  that  I 
Stumbled  on  deck,  half  mad.  I would  fling  myselt  over  and  die ! 

But  one  — he  was  waving  a flag  — the  one  man  left  on  the  wiec 
“ Woman”  — he  graspt  at  my  arm — “ stay  there  —I  crouch  d on  the  deck 
“ We  are  sinking,  and  yet  there’s  hope  : look  yonder,’  he  cried,  a sail 
In  a tone  so  rough  that  I broke  into  passionate  tears,  and  the  wail 
Of  a beaten  babe,  till  I saw  that  a boat  was  nearing  us  — then 
All  on  a sudden  I thought,  I shall  look  on  the  child  again. 

x. 

They  lower’d  me  down  the  side,  and  there  in  the  boat  I lay 
With  sad  eyes  fixt  on  the  lost  sea-home,  as  we  glided  away, 

And  I sigh’d,  as  the  low  dark  hull  dipt  under  the  smiling  main,  „ 

“ Had  I stayed  with  him,  I had  now  — with  him  — been  out  of  my  pain. 

XI. 

They  took  us  aboard : the  crew  were  gentle,  the  captain  kind ; 

But  / was  the  lonely  slave  of  an  often-wandering  mind; 

For  whenever  a rougher  gust  might  tumble  a stormier  wavP, 

“O  Stephen,”  I moan’d,  “T  am  coming  to  thee  in  thine  Ocean-gray*. 

And  again  when  a balmier  breeze  curl’d  over  a peacefuller  sea, 

I found  myself  moaning  again  “O  child,  I am  coming  to  thee. 


DESPAIR . 


601 


XII. 


The  broad  white  brow  of  the  Isle  — that  bay  with  the  color’d  sand  — 

Rich  was  the  rose  of  sunset  there,  as  we  drew  to  the  land ; 

All  so  quiet  the  ripple  would  hardly  blanch  into  spray 

At  the  feet  of  the  cliff;  and  I pray’d  — “ my  child’  — for  I still  could  pray  ~ 
“ May  her  life  be  as  blissfully  calm,  be  never  gloom’d  by  the  curse 
Of  a sin,  not  hers ! ” 

Was  it  well  with  the  child  ? 

T wrote*  to  the  nurse 


Who  had  borne  my  flower  on  her  hireling  heart ; and  an  answer  came 
Not  from  the  nurse  — nor  yet  to  the  wife  — to  her  maiden  name  ! 

I shook  as  I open’d  the  letter  — I knew  that  hand  too  well,— 

And  from  it  a scrap,  dipt  out  of  the  “deaths’  in  a paper,  tell. 

“Ten  long  sweet  summer  days”  of  fever,  and  want  of  care! 

And  gone  — that  day  of  the  storm  — O Mother,  she  came  to  me  there. 


DESPAIR. 


A man  and  his  wife  having  lost  faith  in  a God,  and  hope  of  a life  to  come,  and  being 
utterly  miserable  in  this,  resolve  to  end  themselves  by  drowning.  The  woman  is  drowned, 
but  the  man  rescued  by  a minister  of  the  sect  he  had  abandoned. 


I. 

Is  it  you,  that  preach’d  in  the  chapel  there  looking  over  the  sand  t 
Follow’d  us  too  that  night,  and  dogg’d  us,  and  drew  me  to  land  1 


II. 

What  did  I feel  that  night  ? You  are  curious.  How  should  I tell  ? 

Does  it  matter  so  much  what  I felt  ? You  rescued  me  — yet  — was  it  well 
; That  you  came  unwish’d  for,  uncall’d,  between  me  and  the  deep  and  my  doom, 
Three  days  since,  three  more  dark  days  of  the  Godless  gloom 
Of  a life  without  sun,  without  health,  without  hope,  without  any  delight 
In  anything  here  upon  earth  ? but  ah  God,  that  night,  that  night 
When  the  rolling  eyes  of  the  light-house  there  on  the  fatal  neck 
Of  land  running  out  into  rock  — they  had  saved  many  hundreds  from  wreck  — 
Glared  on  our  way  toward  death,  I remember  I thought,  as  we  past, 

Does  it  matter  how  many  they  saved  1 we  are  all  of  us  wreck  d at  last  — 

“ Do  you  fear,”  and  there  came  thro’  the  roar  of  the  breaker  a whisper,  a breath, 
“ Fear  ? am  I not  with  you  ? I am  frighted  at  life  not  death.” 


And  the  suns  of  the  limitless  Universe  sparkled  and  shone  m the  sky, 
Flashing  with  fires  as  of  God,  but  we  knew  that  their  light  was  a lie 
Bright  as  with  deathless  hope— but,  however  they  sparkled  and |®h°"e’ 
The  dark  little  worlds  running  round  them  were  worlds  of  woe  like  our  o 
No  soul  in  the  heaven  above,  no  soul  on  the  earth  below, 

A fiery  scroll  written  over  with  lamentation  and  woe. 


602 


DESPAIR. 


IV. 

See,  we  were  nursed  in  the  drear  night-fold  of  your  fatalist  creed, 

And  we  turn’d  to  the  growing  dawn,  we  had  hoped  for  a dawn  indeed, 

When  the  light  of  a Sun  that  was  coming  would  scatter  the  ghosts  of  the  Past, 
And  the  cramping  creeds  that  had  madden’d  the  peoples  would  vanish  at  last. 
And  we  broke  away  from  the  Christ,  our  human  brother  and  friend, 

For  He  spoke,  or  it  seem’d  that  He  spoke,  of  a Hell  without  help,  without  end. 


v. 

Hoped  for  a dawn  and  it  came,  but  the  promise  had  faded  away ; 

We  had  past  from  a cheerless  night  to  the  glare  of  a drearier  day ; 

He  is  only  a cloud  and  a smoke  who  was  once  a pillar  of  fire, 

The  guess  of  a worm  in  the  dust  and  the  shadow  of  its  desire  — 

Of  a worm  as  it  writhes  in  a world  of  the  weak  trodden  down  by  the  strong, 
Of  a dying  worm  in  a world,  all  massacre,  murder,  and  wrong. 

vi. 

O we  poor  orphans  of  nothing  — alone  on  that  lonely  shore  — 

Born  of  the  brainless  Nature  who  knew  not  that  which  she  bore! 

Trusting  no  longer  that  Earthly  flower  would  be  heavenly  fruit  — 

Come  from  the  brute,  poor  souls  — no  souls  — and  to  die  with  the  brute 

VII. 

Nay,  but  I am  not  claiming  your  pity : I know  you  of  old  — 

Small  pity  for  those  that  have  ranged  from  the  narrow  warmth  of  your  fold, 
Where  you  bawl’d  the  dark  side  of  your  faith  and  a God  of  eternal  rage, 

Till  you  flung  us  back  on  ourselves,  and  the  human  heart,  and  the  Age. 

VIII. 

But  pity  — the  Pagan  held  it  a vice  — was  in  her  and  in  me, 

Helpless,  taking  the  place  of  the  pitying  God  that  should  be! 

Pity  for  all  that  aches  in  the  grasp  of  an  idiot  power, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  on  an  earth  that  bore  not  a flower; 

Pity  for  all  that  suffers  on  land  or  in  air  or  the  deep, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  till  we  long’d  for  eternal  sleep. 

IX. 

“ Lightly  step  over  the  sands!  the  waters  — you  hear  them  call! 

Life  with  its  anguish,  and  horrors,  and  errors  — away  with  it  all!” 

And  she  laid  her  hand  in  my  own  — she  was  always  loyal  and  sweet  — 

Till  the  points  of  the  foam  in  the  dusk  came  playing  about  our  feet. 

There  was  a strong  sea-current  would  sweep  us  out  to  the  main. 

“Ah  God  ” tho’  I felt  as  I spoke  I was  taking  the  name  in  vain  — 

“ Ah  God”  and  we  turn’d  to  each  other,  we  kiss’d,  we  embraced  she  and  I. 
Knowing  the  Love  we  were  used  to  believe  everlasting  would  die : 


DESPAIR. 


603 


Ve  had  read  their  know-nothing  books  and  we  lean’d  to  the  darker  side 
kh  God,  should  we  find  Him,  perhaps,  perhaps,  if  we  died,  if  we  died; 
Ve  never  had  found  Him  on  earth,  this  earth  is  a fatherless  Hell 
Dear  Love,  forever  and  ever,  forever  and  ever  farewell, 

Tever  cry  so  desolate,  not  since  the  world  began, 
lever  a kiss  so  sad,  no,  not  since  the  coming  of  man! 


Sut  the  blind  wave  cast  me  ashore,  and  you  saved  me,  a valueless  life, 
^ot  a grain  of  gratitude  mine ! You  have  parted  the  man  from  the  wife, 
am  left  alone  on  the  land,  she  is  all  alone  in  the  sea ; 

;f  a curse  meant  ought,  I would  curse  you  for  not  having  let  me  be. 


XI. 

Visions  of  youth  — for  my  brain  was  drunk  with  the  water,  it  seems ; 

[ had  past  into  perfect  quiet  at  length  out  of  pleasant  dreams, 

\ud  the  transient  trouble  of  drowning  — what  was  it  when  match  d with  the 

pains  , . 

)f  the  hellish  heat  of  a wretched  life  rushing  back  thro  the  veins  f 


XII. 

Why  should  I live  7 one  son  had  forged  on  his  father  and  fled, 
A.nd  if  I believed  in  a God,  I would  thank  him,  the  other  is  dead, 
A.nd  there  was  a baby-girl,  that  had  never  look  d on  the  light . 
Happiest  she  of  us  all,  for  she  past  from  the  night  to  the  night. 


XIII. 

But  the  crime,  if  a crime,  of  her  eldest-born,  her  glory,  her  boast. 

Struck  hard  at  the  tender  heart  of  the  mother,  and  broke  it  almost ; 

Tho’  glory  and  shame  dying  out  forever  in  endless  time, 

Does  it  matter  so  much  whether  crown’d  for  a virtue,  or  hang  d for  a crime 


xiv. 

And  ruin’d  by  him,  by  him , I stood  there,  naked,  amazed 

In  a world  of  arrogant  opulence,  fear’d  myself  turning  crazed, 

And  I would  not  be  mock’d  in  a madhouse!  and  she,  the  delicate  wife, 
With  a grief  that  could  only  be  cured,  if  cured,  by  the  surgeon  s knife, 


xv. 


Why  should  we  bear  with  an  hour  of  torture,  a moment  of  pain, 

[f  every  man  die  forever,  if  all  his  griefs  are  in  vain,  . 

And  the  homeless  planet  at  length  will  be  wheel’d  thro  the  silence  of  space, 
Motherless  evermore  of  an  ever-vanishing  race, 

When  the  worm  shall  have  writhed  its  last,  and  its  last  brother-worm  will  have 
Prom  thef dead  fossil  skull  that  is  left  in  the  rocks  of  an  earth  that  is  dead  ? 


604 


DESPAIR . 


XVI. 

Have  I crazed  myself  over  their  horrible  infidel  writings  % O yes, 

For  these  are  the  new  dark  ages,  you  see,  of  the  popular  press, 

When  the  bat  comes  out  of  his  cave,  and  the  owls  are  whooping  at  noon, 

And  Doubt  is  the  lord  of  this  dunghill  and  crows  to  the  sun  and  the  moon, 
Till  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  of  our  science  are  both  of  them  turn’d  into  bloo< 
And  Hope  will  have  broken  her  heart,  running  after  a shadow  of  good ; 

For  their  knowing  and  know-nothing  books  are  scatter’d  from  hand  to  hand- 
le have  knelt  in  your  know-all  chapel  too  looking  over  the  sand. 

XVII. 

What ! I should  call  on  that  Infinite  Love  that  has  served  us  so  well  ? 
Infinite  cruelty  rather  that  made  everlasting  Hell, 

Made  us,  foreknew  us,  foredoom’d  us,  and  does  what  he  will  with  his  own ; 
Better  our  dead  brute  mother  who  never  has  heard  us  groan ! 

XVIII. 

Hell ? if  the  souls  of  men  were  immortal,  as  men  have  been  told, 

The  lecher  would  cleave  to  his  lusts,  and  the  miser  would  yearn  for  his  gold, 
And  so  there  were  Hell  forever  ! but  were  there  a God  as  you  say, 

His  Love  would  have  power  over  Hell  till  it  utterly  vanish’d  away. 

XIX. 

Ah  yet  — I have  had  some  glimmer,  at  times,  in  my  gloomiest  woe, 

Of  a God  behind  all  — after  all  — the  great  God  for  aught  that  I know ; 

But  the  God  of  Love  and  of  Hell  together  — they  cannot  be  thought, 

If  there  be  such  a God,  may  the  Great  God  curse  him  and  bring  him  to  nought 


Blasphemy  i whose  is  the  fault  ? is  it  mine  ? for  why  would  you  save 
A madman  to  vex  you  with  wretched  words,  who  is  best  in  his  grave  1 
Blasphemy  ! ay,  why  not,  being  damn’d  beyond  hope  of  grace  ? 

O would  I were  yonder  with  her,  and  away  from  your  faith  and  your  face! 
Blasphemy ! true ! I have  scared  you  pale  with  mj^  scandalous  talk, 

But  the  blasphemy  to  my  mind  lies  all  in  the  way  that  you  walk. 

XXI. 

Hence ! she  is  gone ! can  I stay  ? can  I breathe  divorced  from  the  Past  ? 
You  needs  must  have  good  lynx-eyes  if  I do  not  escape  you  at  last. 

Our  orthodox  coroner  doubtless  will  find  it  a felode-se, 

And  the  stake  and  the  cross-road,  fool,  if  you  will,  does  it  matter  to  me  ? 


THE  AJVC/ENT  SAGE . 


60S 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 

1 thousand  summers  ere  the  time  of 
Christ 

[from  out  his  ancient  city  came  a 
Seer 

Vhom  one  that  loved,  and  honor'd 
him,  and  yet 

»Vas  no  disciple,  richly  garb'd,  but 
worn 

?rom  wasteful  living,  follow'd  — in 
his  hand 

scroll  of  verse  — till  that  old  man 
before 

V cavern  whence  an  affluent  fountain 
pour’d 

?rom  darkness  into  daylight,  turn’d 
and  spoke. 

This  wealth  of  waters  might  but  seem 
to  draw 

?rom  yon  dark  cave,  but,  son,  the 
source  is  higher, 

fon  summit  half-a-league  in  air  — 
and  higher, 

The  cloud  that  hides  it  — higher  still, 
the  heavens 

thereby  the  cloud  was  moulded,  and 
whereout 

The  cloud  descended.  Force  is  from 
the  heights. 

K am  wearied  of  our  city,  son,  and  go 

To  spend  my  one  last  year  among  the 
hills. 

rVhat  hast  thou  there  ? Some  death- 
song  for  the  Ghouls 

To  make  their  banquet  relish  ? let 
me  read. 

How  far  thro’  all  the  bloom  and  brake 
That  nightingale  is  heard  ! 

What  power  blit  the  bird’s  could  make 
This  music  iu  the  bird? 

How  sumrher-bright  are  yonder  skies, 

And  earth  as  fair  in  hue! 

And  yet  what  sign  of  aught  that  lies 
Behind  the  green  and  blue? 

But  man  to-day  is  fancy’s  fool 
As  man  hath  ever  been. 

The  nameless  Power,  or  Powers,  that  rule 
Were  never  heard  or  seen. 

f thou  would’st  hear  the  Nameless, 
and  wilt  dive 

into  the  Temple-cave  of  thine  own  self, 


There,  brooding  by  the  central  altar, 
thou 

May’st  haply  learn  the  Nameless  hath 
a voice, 

By  which  thou  wilt  abide,  if  thou  be 
wise, 

As  if  thou  knewest,  tho’  thou  canst 
not  know ; 

For  Knowledge  is  the  swallow  on  the 
lake 

That  sees  and  stirs  the  surface-shadow 
there 

But  never  yet  hath  dipt  into  the 
abysm, 

The  Abysm  of  all  Abysms,  beneath, 
within 

The  blue  of  sky  and  sea,  the  green 
of  earth, 

And  in  the  million-millionth  of  a grain 

Which  cleft  and  cleft  again  fore 
more, 

And  ever  vanishing,  never  vanishes, 

To  me,  my  son,  more  mystic  than 
myself, 

Or  even  than  the  Nameless  is  to  me. 
And  when  thou  sendest  thy  free 
soul  thro’  heaven, 

Nor  understandest  bound  nor  bound- 
lessness, 

Thou  seest  the  Nameless  of  the  hun- 
dred names. 

And  if  the  Nameless  should  with- 
draw from  all 

Thy  frailty  counts  most  real,  all  thy 
world 

Might  vanish  like  thy  shadow  in  the 
dark. 

And  since  — from  when  this  earth  began  — 
The  Nameless  never  came 

Among  us,  never  spake  with  man. 

And  never  named  the  Name  — 

Thou  canst  not  prove  the  Nameless, 
O my  son, 

Nor  canst  thou  prove  the  world  thou 
mo  vest  in, 

Thou  canst  not  prove  that  thou  art 
body  alone, 

Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art 
spirit  alone 

Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art 
both  in  one : 


606 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


Thou  canst  not  prove  thou  art  im- 
mortal, no 

Nor  yet  that  thou  art  mortal  — nay 
my  son, 

Thou  canst  not  prove  that  I,  who 
speak  with  thee, 

Am  not  thyself  in  converse  with  thyself, 

For  nothing  worthy  proving  can  be 
proven, 

Nor  yet  disproven  : wherefore  thou 
be  wise, 

Cleave  ever  to  the  sunnier  side  of 
doubt, 

And  cling  to  Faith  beyond  the  forms 
of  Faith  ! 

She  reels  not  in  the  storm  of  warring 
words, 

She  brightens  at  the  clash  of  “ Yes  ” 
and  “ No,” 

She  sees  the  Best  that  glimmers  thro' 
the  Worst, 

She  feels  the  Sun  is  hid  but  for  a 
night, 

She  spies  the  summer  thro’  the  winter 
bud, 

She  tastes  the  fruit  before  the  blos- 
som falls, 

She  hears  the  lark  within  the  songless 
egg, 

She  finds  the  fountain  where  they 
wail’d  “ Mirage  ! ” 

What  Power?  aught  akin  to  Mind, 

The  mind  in  me  and  you? 

Or  power  as  of  the  Gods  gone  blind 
Who  see  not  what  they  do? 

But  some  in  yonder  city  hold,  my  son, 

That  none  but  Gods  could  build  this 
house  of  ours, 

So  beautiful,  vast,  various,  so  beyond 

All  work  of  man,  yet,  like  all  work  of 
man, 

A beauty  with  defect till  That 

which  knows, 

And  is  not  known,  but  felt  thro’  what 
we  feel 

Within  ourselves  is  highest,  shall 
descend 

On  this  half-deed,  and  shape  it  at  the 
last 

According  to  the  Highest  in  the 
Highest. 


What  Power  but  the  Years  that  make 
And  break  the  vase  of  clay, 

And  stir  the  sleeping  earth,  and  wake 
The  bloom  that  fades  away  ? 

What  rulers  but  the  Days  and  Hours 
That  cancel  weal  with  woe, 

And  wind  the  front  of  youth  with  flowers* 
And  cap  our  age  with  snow? 

The  days  and  hours  are  ever  glanc 
ing  by, 

And  seem  to  flicker  past  thro’  sui 
and  shade, 

Or  short,  or  long,  as  Pleasure  lead^ 
or  Pain ; 

But  with  the  Nameless  is  nor  Day  no 
Hour ; 

Tho’  we,  thin  minds,  who  creep  fror 
thought  to  thought 

Break  into  “ Thens  ” and  “ Whens 
the  Eternal  Now : 

This  double  seeming  of  the  singl 
world ! — 

My  words  are  like  the  babblings  in 
dream 

Of  nightmare,  when  the  babbling 
break  the  dream. 

But  thou  be  wise  in  this  dream-worl 
of  ours, 

Nor  take  thy  dial  for  thy  deity, 

But  make  the  passing  shadow  serv 
thy  will. 

The  years  that  made  the  stripling  wise 
Undo  their  work  again, 

And  leave  him,  blind  of  heart  and  eyes, 
The  last  and  least  of  men  ; 

Who  clings  to  earth,  and  once  would  dar^ 
Hell-heat  or  Arctic  cold, 

And  now  one  breath  of  cooler  air 
Would  loose  him  from  his  hold  ; 

His  winter  chills  him  to  the  root, 

He  withers  marrow  and  mind  ; 

The  kernel  of  the  shrivell’d  fruit 
Is  jutting  thro’  the  rind ; 

The  tiger  spasms  tear  his  chest, 

The  palsy  wags  his  head ; 

The  wife,  the  sons,  who  love  him  best 
Would  fain  that  he  were  dead ; 

The  griefs  by  which  he  once  was  wrung 
Were  never  worth  the  while  — 

Who  knows  7 or  whether  this  eartl 
narrow  life 

Be  yet  but  yolk,  and  forming  in  th 
shell  7 

The  shaft  of  scorn  that  once  had  stung 

But  wakes  a dotard  smile. 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


607 


he  placid  gleam  of  sunset  after 
storm ! 

The  statesman’s  brain  that  sway’d  the  past 
Is  feebler  than  his  knees; 

The  passive  sailor  wrecks  at  last 
In  ever-silent  seas ; 

The  warrior  hath  forgot  his  arms, 

The  Learned  all  his  lore; 

The  changing  market  frets  or  charms 
The  merchant’s  hope  no  more; 

The  prophet’s  beacon  burn’d  in  vain, 

And  now  is  lost  in  cloud  ; 

The  plowman  passes,  bent  with  pain, 

To  mix  with  what  he  plow’d; 

The  poet  whom  his  Age  would  quote 
As  heir  of  endless  fame  — 

He  knows  not  ev’n  the  book  he  wrote, 

Not  even  his  own  name. 

For  man  has  overlived  his  day, 

And,  darkening  in  the  light, 

Scarce  feels  the  senses  break  away 
To  mix  with  ancient  Night. 

he  shell  must  break  before  the  bird 
can  fly. 

The  years  that  when  my  Youth  began 
Had  set  the  lily  and  rose 
! By  all  my  ways  where’er  they  ran, 

Have  ended  mortal  foes ; 

My  rose  of  love  forever  gone, 

My  lily  of  truth  and  trust  — 

They  made  her  lily  and  rose  in  one, 

And  changed  her  into  dust. 
lO  rosetree  planted  in  my  grief, 

And  growing,  on  her  tomb, 

Her  dust  is  greening  in  your  leaf, 

Her  blood  is  in  your  bloom. 

O slender  lily  waving  there, 

And  laughing  back  the  light, 

In  vain  you  tell  me  “ Earth  is  fair  ” 

When  all  is  dark  as  night, 
u. 

y son,  the  world  is  dark  with  griefs 
and  graves, 

d dark  that  men  cry  out  against  the 
Heavens. 

rho  knows  but  that  the  darkness  is 
in  man  ? 

le  doors  of  Night  may  be  the  gates 
of  Light ; 

>r  wert  thou  born  or  blind  or  deaf, 
and  then 

iddenly  heal’d,  how  would’st  thou 
glory  in  all 

le  splendors  and  the  voices  , of  the 
world  ! 

id  we,  the  poor  earth’s  dying  race, 
and  yet 


No  phantoms,  watching  from  a phan- 
tom shore 

Await  the  last  and  largest  sense  to 
make 

The  phantom  walls  of  this  illusion 
fade, 

And  show  us  that  the  world  is  wholly 
fair. 

But  vain  the  tears  for  darken’d  years 
As  laughter  over  wine, 

And  vain  the  laughter  as  the  tears, 

O brother,  mine  or  thine, 

For  all  that  laugh,  and  all  that  weep, 
And  all  that  breathe  are  one 
Slight  ripple  on  the  boundless  deep 
That  moves,  and  all  is  gone. 

But  that  one  ripple  on  the  boundless 
deep 

Feels  that  the  deep  is  boundless,  and 
itself 

Forever  changing  form,  but  evermore 

One  with  the  boundless  motion  of  the 
deep. 

Yet  wine  and  laughter  friends!  and  set 
The  lamps  alight,  and  call 
For  golden  music,  and  forget 
The  darkness  of  the  pall. 

If  utter  darkness  closed  the  day, 
my  son 

But  earth’s  dark  forehead  flings 
athwart  the  heavens 

Her  shadow  crown’d  with  stars  — and 
yonder  — out 

To  northward  — some  that  never  set, 
but  pass 

From  sight  and  night  to  lose  them- 
selves  in  day. 

I hate  the  black  negation  of  the  bier, 

And  wish  the  dead,  as  happier  than 
ourselves 

And  higher,  having  climb’d  one  step 
beyond 

Our  village  miseries,  might  be  borne 
in  white 

To  burial  or  to  burning,  hymn’d  from 
hence 

With  songs  in  praise  of  death,  and 
crown’d  with  flowers ! 

O worms  and  maggots  of  to-day 
Without  their  hope  of  wings! 


608 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


But  louder  than  thy  rhyme  the  silent 
Word 

Of  that  world-prophet  :'n  the  heart  of 
man. 

Tho?  some  have  gleams  or  so  they  say 
Of  more  than  mortal  things. 

To-day  ? but  what  of  yesterday  ? for 
oft 

On  me,  when  boy,  there  came  what 
then  I call’d, 

Who  knew  no  books  and  no  philoso- 
phies, 

In  my  boy-phrase  “ The  Passion  of 
the  Past.” 

The  first  gray  streak  of  earliest  sum- 
mer-dawn, 

The  last  long  stripe  of  waning  crim- 
son gloom, 

As  if  the  late  and  early  were  but  one  — 

A height,  a broken  grange,  a grove,  a 
flower 

Had  murmurs  “ Lost  and  gone  and 
lost  and  gone  ! ” 

A breath,  a whisper  — some  divine 
farewell  — 

Desolate  sweetness  — far  and  far 
away  — 

What  had  he  loved,  what  had  he  lost, 
the  boy  ? 

I know  not  and  I speak  of  what  has 
been. 

And  more,  my  son ! for  more  than 
once  when  I 

Sat  all  alone,  revolving  in  myself 

The  word  that  is  the  symbol  of  myself, 

The  mortal  limit  of  the  Self  was 
loosed, 

And  past  into  the  Nameless,  as  a cloud 

Melts  into  Heaven.  I touch’d  my 
limbs,  the  limbs 

Were  strange  not  mine  — and  yet  no 
shade  of  doubt, 

But  utter  clearness,  and  thro’  loss  of 
Self 

The  gain  of  such  large  life  as  match’d 
with  ours 

Were  Sun  to  spark  — unshadowable 
in  words, 

Themselves  but  shadows  of  a shadow- 
world. 


And  idle  gleams  will  come  and  go, 

But  still  the  clouds  remain; 

The  clouds  themselves  are  children  of 
the  Sun. 

And  Night  and  Shadow  rule  below 
When  only  Day  should  reign. 

And  Day  and  Night  are  children  oi 
the  Sun, 

And  idle  gleams  to  thee  are  light  to  me, 

Some  say,  the  Light  was  father  of  the 
Night, 

And  some,  the  Night  was  father  oi 
the  Light. 

No  night  no  day  ! — I touch  thy  work 
again  — 

No  ill  no  good  ! such  counter-terms 
my  son, 

Are  border-races,  holding,  each  it* 
own 

By  endless  war : but  night  enough  i, 
there 

In  yon  dark  city  : get  thee  back  : an< 
since 

The  key  to  that  weird  casket,  whicl 
for  thee 

But  holds  a skull,  is  neither  thine  no 
mine, 

But  in  the  hand  of  what  is  more  tha? 
man, 

Or  in  man’s  hand  when  man  is  mor 
than  man, 

Let  be  thy  wail  and  help  thy  felloA 
men, 

And  make  thy  gold  thy  vassal  not  th 

kinS’  . 

And  fling  free  alms  into  the  beggar 
bowl, 

And  send  the  day  into  the  darken' 
heart ; 

Nor  list  for  guerdon  in  the  voice  t 
men, 

A dying  echo  from  a falling  wall ; 

Nor  care  — for  Hunger  hath  the  Ev 
eye  — 

To  vex  the  noon  with  fiery  gems,  < 
fold 

Thy  presence  in  the  silk  of  sumpti 
ous  looms  ; 

Nor  roll  thy  viands  on  a luscioi 
tongue, 


THE  FLIGHT . 


609 


lor  drown  thyself  with  flies  in  honied 
wine ; 

for  thou  be  rageful,  like  a handled 
bee, 

ind  lose  thy  life  by  usage  of  thy 
sting; 

for  harm  an  adder  thro’  the  lust  for 
harm, 

for  make  a snail’s  horn  shrink  for 
wantonness  ; 

\nd  more  — think  well!  Do-well 
will  follow  thought, 

^nd  in  the  fatal  sequence  of  this 
world 

^n  evil  thought  may  soil  thy  chil- 
dren’s blood ; 

Sut  curb  the  beast  would  cast  thee  in 
the  mire, 


And  leave  the  hot  swamp  of  voluptu- 
ousness 

A cloud  between  the  Nameless  and 
thyself, 

And  lay  thine  uphill  shoulder  to  the 
wheel, 

And  climb  the  Mount  of  Blessing, 
whence,  if  thou 

Look  higher,  then  — perchance  — thou 
mayest  — beyond 

A hundred  ever-rising  mountain 
lines, 

And  past  the  range  of  Night  and 
Shadow  — see 

The  high-heaven  dawn  of  more  than 
mortal  day 

Strike  on  the  Mount  of  Vision ! 

So,  farewell. 


THE  FLIGHT. 


3 


8 


ii 


j 


«- 

- 


i. 

Are  you  sleeping?  have  you  forgotten?  do  not  sleep,  my  sister  dear! 
How  can  you  sleep  ? the  morning  brings  the  day  I hate  and  fear; 

The  cock  has  crow’d  already  once,  he  crows  before  his  time ; 

Awake ! the  creeping  glimmer  steals,  the  hills  are  white  with  rime. 


ii. 

Ah,  clasp  me  in  your  arms,  sister,  ah,  fold  me  to  your  breast! 
Ah,  let  me  weep  my  fill  once  more,  and  cry  myself  to  rest ! 
To  rest  ? to  rest  and  wake  no  more  were  better  rest  for  me, 
Than  to  waken  every  morning  to  that  face  I loathe  to  see : 


hi. 

I envied  your  sweet  slumber,  all  night  so  calm  you  lay, 

The  night  was  calm,  the  morn  is  calm,  and  like  another  day; 

But  I could  wish  yon  moaning  sea  would  rise  and  burst  the  shore, 
And  such  a whirlwind  blow  these  woods,  as  never  blew  before. 


IV. 

For,  one  by  one,  the  stars  went  down  across  the  gleaming  pane, 
And  project  after  project  rose,  and  all  of  them  were  vain; 

The  blackthorn-blossom  fades  and  falls  and  leaves  the  bitter  sloe, 
The  hope  I catch  at  vanishes  and  youth  is  turn’d  to  woe. 


610 


THE  FLIGHT. 


v. 

Come,  speak  a little  comfort ! all  night  I pray’d  with  tears, 

And  yet  no  comfort  came  to  me,  and  now  the  morn  appears, 

When  he  will  tear  me  from  your  side,  who  bought  me  for  his  slave : 
This  father  pays  his  debt  with  me,  and  weds  me  to  my  grave. 

VI. 

What  father,  this  or  mine,  was  he,  who,  on  that  summer  day 
When  I had  fall’n  from  off  the  crag  we  clamber’d  up  in  play, 

Found,  fear’d  me  dead,  and  groan’d,  and  took  and  kiss’d  me,  and  again 
He  kiss’d  me ; and  I loved  him  then ; he  was  my  father  then. 

VII. 

No  father  now,  the  tyrant  vassal  of  a tyrant  vice! 

The  Godless  Jephtha  vows  his  child  ...  to  one  cast  of  the  dice. 

These  ancient  woods,  this  Hall  at  last  will  go  — perhaps  have  gone, 
Except  his  own  meek  daughter  yield  her  life,  heart,  soul  to  one  — 

VIII. 

To  one  who  knows  I scorn  him.  O the  formal  mocking  bow, 

The  cruel  smile,  the  courtly  phrase  that  masks  his  malice  now  — 

But  often  in  the  sidelong  eyes  a gleam  of  all  things  ill  — 

It  is  not  Love  but  Hate  that  weds  a bride  against  her  will ; 

IX. 

Hate,  that  would  pluck  from  this  true  breast  the  locket  that  I wear, 
The  precious  crystal  into  which  I braided  Edwin’s  hair! 

The  love  that  keeps  this  heart  alive  beats  on  it  night  and  day  — 

One  golden  curl,  his  golden  gift,  before  he  past  away. 

x. 

He  left  us  weeping  in  the  woods  ; his  boat  was  on  the  sand; 

How  slowly  down  the  rocks  he  went,  how  loth  to  quit  the  land! 

And  all  my  life  was  darken’d,  as  I saw  the  white  sail  run, 

And  darken,  up  that  lane  of  light  into  the  setting  sun. 

XI. 

How  often  have  we  watch’d  the  sun  fade  from  us  thro’  the  West, 

And  follow  Edwin  to  those  isles,  those  islands  of  the  Blest! 

Is  he  not  there  ? would  I were  there,  the  friend,  the  bride,  the  wife, 
With  him,  where  summer  never  dies,  with  Love,  the  Sun  of  life! 

XII. 

O would  I were  in  Edwin’s  arms  — once  more  — to  feel  his  breath 
Upon  my  cheek  — on  Edwin’s  ship,  with  Edwin,  ev’n  in  death, 

Tho’  all  about  the  shuddering  wreck  the  death-white  sea  should  rave. 
Or  if  lip  were  laid  to  lip  on  the  pillows  of  the  wave. 


THE  FLIGHT . 


611 


XIII. 

Shall  I take  him  ? I kneel  with  him  ? I swear  and  swear  forsworn 
To  love  him  most,  whom  most  I loathe,  to  honor  whom  I scorn  ? 

The  Fiend  would  yell,  the  grave  would  yawn,  my  mother’s  ghost  would 
rise  — 

To  lie,  to  lie  — in  God’s  own  house  — the  blackest  of  all  lies ! 


XIV. 

Why  — rather  than  that  hand  in  mine,  tho’  every  pulse  would  freeze, 
I’d  sooner  fold  an  icy  corpse  dead  of  some  foul  disease : 

Wed  him  ? I will  not  wed  him,  let  them  spurn  me  from  the  doors, 
And  I will  wander  till  I die  about  the  barren  moors. 


xv. 

The  dear,  mad  bride  who  stabb’d  her  bridegroom  on  her  bridal  night  — 
If  mad,  then  I am  mad,  but  sane,  if  she  were  in  the  right. 

My  father’s  madness  makes  me  mad  — but  words  are  only  words  ! 

I am  not  mad,  not  yet,  not  quite  — There ! listen  how  the  birds 


XVI. 

Begin  to  warble  yonder  in  the  budding  orchard  trees! 

The  lark  has  past  from  earth  to  Heaven  upon  the  morning  breeze. 
How  gladly,  were  I one  of  those,  how  early  would  I wake ! 

And  yet  the  sorrow  that  I bear  is  sorrow  for  his  sake. 


XVII. 

They  love  their  mates,  to  whom  they  sing ; or  else  their  songs,  that  meet 
The  morning  with  such  music,  would  never  be  so  sweet ! 

And  tho’  these  fathers  will  not  hear,  the  blessed  Heavens  are  just, 

And  Love  is  fire,  and  burns  the  feet  would  trample  it  to  dust. 


XVIII. 

A door  was  open’d  in  the  house  — who  ? who  ? my  father  sleeps ! 

A stealthy  foot  upon  the  stair ! he  — some  one  — this  way  creeps ! 

If  lie  ? yes,  he  . . . lurks,  listens,  fears  his  victim  may  have  fled  — 

He ! where  is  some  sharp-pointed  thing  ? he  comes,  and  finds  me  dead. 


XIX. 

Not  he,  not  yet!  and  time  to  act  — but  how  my  temples  burn! 
And  idle  fancies  flutter  me,  I know  not  where  to  turn ; 

Speak  to  me,  sister ; counsel  me ; this  marriage  must  not  be. 
You  only  know  the  love  that  makes  the  world  a world  to  me ! 


512 


THE  FLIGHT. 


xx. 

Our  gentle  mother,  had  she  lived  — but  we  were  left  alone : 

That  other  left  us  to  ourselves  ; he  cared  not  for  his  own ; 

So  all  the  summer  long  we  roam’d  in  these  wild  woods  of  ours, 

My  Edwin  loved  to  call  us  then  “ His  two  wild  woodland  flowers." 


XXI. 

Wild  flowers  blowing  side  by  side  in  God’s  free  light  and  air, 

Wild  flowers  of  the  secret  woods,  when  Edwin  found  us,  there, 

Wild  woods  in  which  we  roved  with  him,  and  heard  his  passionate  vow. 
Wild  woods  in  which  we  rove  no  more,  if  we  be  parted  now ! 


XXII. 

You  will  not  leave  me  thus  in  grief  to  wander  forth  forlorn; 

We  never  changed  a bitter  word,  not^me  since  we  were  born; 
Our  dying  mother  join’d  our  hands ; she  knew  this  father  well; 
She  bad  us  love,  like  souls  in  Heaven,  and  now  I fly  from  Hell, 


XXIII. 

And  you  with  me ; and  we  shall  light  upon  some  lonely  shore, 
Some  lodge  within  the  waste  sea-dunes,  and  hear  the  waters  roar, 
And  see  the  ships  from  out  the  West  go  dipping  thro’  the  foam, 
And  sunshine  on  that  sail  at  last  which  brings  our  Edwin  home. 


XXIV. 

But  look,  the  morning  grows  apace,  and  lights  the  old  church-tower, 

And  lights  the  clock!  the  hand  points  five  — O me  — it  strikes  the  hour  — 
I bide  no  more,  I meet  my  fate,  whatever  ills  betide ! 

Arise,  my  own  true  sister,  come  forth ! the  world  is  wide. 


XXV. 

And  yet  my  heart  is  ill  at  ease,  my  eyes  are  dim  with  dew, 

I seem  to  see  a new-dug  grave  up  yonder  by  the  yew ! 

If  we  should  never  more  return,  but  wander  hand  in  hand 
With  breaking  hearts,  without  a friend,  and  in  a distant  land. 


XXVI. 

O sweet,  they  tell  me  that  the  world  is  hard,  and  harsh  of  mind, 
But  can  it  be  so  hard,  so  harsh,  as  those  that  should  be  kind  ? 
That  matters  not:  let  come  what  will ; at  last  the  end  is  sure, 
And  every  heart  that  loves  with  truth  is  equal  to  endure. 


TOMORROW, 


613 


TOMORROW. 

i. 

[er,  that  yer  Honor  was  spakin’  to  ? Whin,  yer  Honor  ? last  year  — 

tandin’  here  be  the  bridge,  when  last  yer  Honor  was  here  ? 

n’  yer  Honor  ye  gev  her  the  top  of  the  mornin’,  “ Tomorra  ” says  she. 

Vdiat  did  they  call  her,  yer  Honor  ? They  call’d  her  Molly  Magee. 
tn’  yer  Honor’s  the  thrue  ould  blood  that  always  manes  to  be  kind, 
iut  there’s  rason  in  all  things,  yer  Honor,  for  Molly  was  out  of  her  mind. 

ii. 

Ihure,  an’  meself  remimbers  wan  night  cornin’  down  be  the  sthrame, 
m’  it  seems  to  me  now  like  a bit  of  yisther-day  in  a dhram.e  — 
lere  where  yer  Hoiior  seen  her  — there  was  but  a slip  of  a moon, 

Jut  I hard  thim — Molly  Magee  wid  her  batchelor,  Danny  O’Koon  — 

You’ve  been  takin’  a dhrop  o’  the  crathur  ” an’  Danny  says  “ Troth,  an’  I been 
)hrinkin’  yer  health  wid  Shamus  O’Shea  at  Katty’s  shebeen  ; 1 
Jut  I must  be  lavin’  ye  soon.”  “ Ochone  are  ye  goin’  away  ? ” 

Goin’  to  cut  the  Sassenach  whate  ” he  says  “ over  the  say  ” — 

An’  whin  will  ye  meet  me  agin  ? ” an’  I hard  him  “ Molly  asthore, 

’ll  meet  you  agin  tomorra,”  says  he,  “be  the  chapel-door.” 

An’  whin  are  ye  goin’  to  lave  me  ? ” “ O’  Monday  mornin’  ” says  he  ; 

An’  shure  thin  ye’ll  meet  me  tomorra?  ” “Tomorra,  tomorra,  Machree ! ” 
’bin  Molly’s  ould  mother,  yer  Honor,  that  had  no  likin’  for  Dan, 

’ail’d  from  her  cabin  an’  tould  her  to  come  away  from  the  man, 
in’  Molly  Magee  kem  flyin’  acrass  me,  as  light  as  a lark, 

Ln’  Dan  stood  there  for  a minute,  an’  thin  wint  into  the  dark. 

Jut  wirrah  ! the  storm  that  night  — the  tundher,  an’  rain  that  fell, 

Ln’  the  sthrames  runnin’  down  at  the  back  o’  the  glin  ’ud  ’a  dhrownded  Hell. 


hi. 

Jut  airth  was  at  pace  nixt  mornin’,  an’  Hiven  in  its  glory  smiled, 
is  the  Holy  Mother  o’  Glory  that  smiles  at  her  sleepin’  child  — 
hhen  — she  stept  an  the  chapel-green,  an’  she  turn’d  herself  roun’ 
Yid  a diamond  dhrop  in  her  eye,  for  Danny  was  not  to  be  foun’, 
in’  many’s  the  time  that  I watch’d  her  at  mass  lettin’  down  the  tear, 
’or  the  Divil  a Danny  was  there,  yer  Honor,  for  forty  year. 


)ch,  Molly  Magee,  wid  the  red  o’  the  rose  an’  the  white  o’  the  May, 
tn’  yer  hair  as  black  as  the  night,  an’  yer  eyes  as  bright  as  the  day! 
ichora,  yer  laste  little  whishper  was  sweet  as  the  lilt  of  a bird  ! 
icushla,  ye  set  me  heart  batin’  to  music  wid  ivery  word!  • 
in’  sorra  the  Queen  wid  her  sceptre  in  sich  an  illigant  han’,  ^ 

in’  the  fall  of  yer  foot  in  the  dance  was  as  light  as  snow  an  the  Ian , 

•i 


J Grog-shop. 


614 


TOMORROW. 


An;  the  sun  kem  out  of  a cloud  whiniver  ye  walkt  in  the  shtreet, 

An’  Shamus  O’Shea  was  yer  shadda,  an’  laid  himself  undher  yer  feet, 

An’  I loved  ye  meself  wid  a heart  and  a half,  me  darlin’,  and  he 
'Ud  ’a  shot  his  own  sowl  dead  for  a kiss  of  ye,  Molly  Magee. 

v. 

But  shure  we  wor  betther  frinds  whin  I crack’d  his  skull  for  her  sake, 

An’  he  ped  me  back  wid  the  best  he  could  give  at  ould  Donovan’s  wake  — 
For  the  boys  wor  about  her  agin  whin  Dan  didn’t  come  to  the  fore, 

An’  Shamus  along  wid  the  rest,  but  she  put  thim  all  to  the  door. 

An’,  afther,  I thried  her  meself  av  the  bird  ’ud  come  to  me  call, 

But  Molly,  begorrah,  ’ud  listhen  to  naither  at  all,  at  all. 


VI. 

An’  her  nabors  an*  frinds  ’ud  consowl  an’  condowl  wid  her,  airly  and  late, 
“ Your  Danny,”  they  says,  “ niver  crasst  over  say  to  the  Sassenach  whate; 
He’s  gone  to  the  States,  aroon,  an’  he’s  married  another  wife, 

An’  ye’ll  niver  set  eyes  an  the  face  of  the  thraithur  agin  in  life ! 

An’  to  dhrame  of  a married  man,  death  alive,  is  a mortial  sin.” 

But  Molly  says  “ I’d  his  hand-promise,  an’  shure  he’ll  meet  me  agin.” 

VII. 

An’  afther  her  paarints  had  inter’d  glory,  an’  both  in  wan  day, 

She  began  to  spake  to  herself,  the  crathur,  an’  whishper,  an’  say 
“Tomorra,  Tomorra ! ” an’  Father  Molowny  he  tuk  her  in  han’, 

“ Molly,  you’re  manin’,”  he  says,  “me  dear,  av  I undherstan’, 

That  ye’ll  meet  your  paarints  agin  an’  yer  Danny  O’Roon  afore  God 
Wid  his  blessed  Marthyrs  an’  Saints;  ” an*  she  gev  him  a frindly  nod, 
“Tomorra,  Tomorra,”  she  says,  an’  she  didn’t  intind  to  desave, 

But  her  wits  wor  dead,  an’  her  hair  was  white  as  the  snow  an  a grave. 

VIII. 

Arrah  now,  here  last  month  they  wor  diggin’  the  bog,  an’  they  foun’ 
Dhrownded  in  black  bog-wather  a corp  lyin’  undher  groun’. 


IX. 

Yer  Honor’s  own  agint,  he  says  to  me  wanst,  at  Katty’s  shebeen, 

“The  Divil  take  all  the  black  lan’,  for  a blessin’  ’ud  come  wid  the  green!” 
An’  where  ’ud  the  poor  man,  thin,  cut  his  bit  o’  turf  for  the  fire  ? 

But  och ! bad  scran  to  the  bogs  whin  they  swallies  the  man  intire ! 

An’  sorra  the  bog  that’s  in  Hiven  wid  all  the  light  an’  the  glow, 

An’  there’s  hate  enough,  shure,  widout  thim  in  the  Divil’s  kitchen  below. 

x. 

Thim  ould  blind  nagers  in  Agypt,  I hard  his  Riverence  say, 

Could  keep  their  haithen  kings  in  the  flesh  for  the  Jidgemint  day, 

An’,  faix,  be  the  piper  o’  Moses,  they  kep  the  cat  an’  the  dog, 

But  it  ’ud  ’a  been  aisier  work  av  they  lived  be  an  Irish  bog. 


THE  SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS . 


615 


XI. 

How-an-iver  they  laid  this  body  they  foun’  an  the  grass 

Be  the  chapel-door,  an’  the  people  ’ud  see  it  that  wint  into  mass  — 

But  a frish  gineration  had  riz,  an’  most  of  the  ould  was  few, 

An’  I didn’t  know  him  meself,  an’  none  of  the  parish  knew. 

XII. 

But  Molly  kem  limpin’  up  wid  her  stick,  she  was  lamed  iv  a knee, 

Thin  a slip  of  a gossoon  call’d,  “ Div  ye  know  him,  Molly  Magee  ? ” 

An’  she  stood  up  strait  as  the  Queen  of  the  world  — she  lifted  her  head  — 
“ He  said  he  would  meet  me  tomorra ! ” an’  dhropt  down  dead  an  the  dead. 

XIII. 

Och,  Molly,  we  thought,  machree,  ye  would  start  back  agin  into  life, 
Whin  we  laid  yez,  aich  be  aich,  at  yer  wake  like  husban’  an’  wife. 

Sorra  the  dhry  eye  thin  but  was  wet. for  the  frinds  that  was  gone  ! 

Sorra  the  silent  throat  but  we  hard  it  cryin’  “ Ochone  ! ” 

An’  Shamus  O’Shea  that  has  now  ten  childer,  hansome  an’  tall, 

Him  an’  his  childer  wor  keenin’  as  if  he  had  lost  thim  all. 

XIV. 

Thin  his  Riverence  buried  thim  both  in  wan  grave  be  the  dead  boor-tree,1 
The  young  man  Danny  O’Roon  wid  his  ould  woman,  Molly  Magee. 

xv. 

May  all  the  flowers  o’  Jeroosilim  blossom  an’  spring  from  the  grass, 
Imbrashin’  an’  kissin’  aich  other  — as  ye  did  — over  yer  Crass! 

An’  the  lark  fly  out  o’  the  flowers  wid  his  song  to  the  Sun  an’  the  Moon, 
An’  tell  thim  in  Hiven  about  Molly  Magee  an’  her  Danny  O’Roon, 

Till  Holy  St.  Pether  gets  up  wid  his  kays  an’  opens  the  gate ! 

An’  shure,  be  the  Crass,  that’s  betther  nor  cuttin’  the  Sassenach  whate 
To  be  there  wid  the  Blessed  Mother,  an’  Saints  an’  Marthyrs  galore, 

An’  singin’  yer  “ Aves  ” an’  “ Fathers  ” foriver  an’  ivermore. 

xvi. 

An’  now  that  I tould  yer  Honor  whativer  I hard  an’  seen, 

Yer  Honor  ’ill  give  me  a thrifle  to  dhrink  yer  health  in  potheen. 


THE  SPINSTER’S  SWEET-ARTS. 


Milk  for  my  sweet-arts,  Bess ! fur  it  mun  be  the  time  about  now 
When  Molly  cooms  in  fro’  the  far-end  close  wi’  her  paails  fro’  the  cow. 
Eh  ! tha  be  new  to  the  plaace  — thou’rt  gaapin’  — doesn’t  tha  see 
I calls  ’em  arter  the  fellers  es  once  was  sweet  upo’  me  ? 


1 Elder-tree. 


616 


THE  SPINSTERS  SWEET-ARTS. 


n. 

Naay  to  be  sewer  it  be  past  ’er  time.  What  maakes  ’er  sa  laate  ? 
Goa  to  the  laane  at  the  back,  an’  loook  thruf  Maddison’s  gaate ! 


Sweet-arts!  Molly  belike  may  ’a  lighted  to-night  upo’  one. 

Sweet-arts ! thanks  to  the  Lord  that  I niver  not  listen’d  to  noan ! 

So  I sits  i’  my  oan  armchair  Wi’  my  oan  kettle  theere  o’  the  hob, 

'An’  Tommy  the  fust,  an’  Tommy  the  second,  an’  Steevie  an’  Rob. 

IV. 

Rob,  coom  oop  ’ere  o’  my  knee.  Thou  sees  that  i’  spite  o’  the  men 
I ’a  kep’  thruf  thick  an’  thin  my  two  ’oonderd  a-year  to  mysen; 

Yis ! thaw  tha  call’d  me  es  pretty  es  ony  lass  i’  the  Shere, 

An’  thou  be  es  pretty  a Tabby,  but  Robby  I seed  thruf  ya  theere. 

v. 

Feyther  ’ud  saay  I wur  ugly  as  sin,  an’  I beant  not  vaain, 

But  I niver  wur  downright  hugly,  thaw  soom  ’ud  ’a  thowt  ma  plaain, 
An’  I wasn’t  sa  plaain  i’  pink  ribbons,  ye  said  I wur  pretty  i’  pinks, 

An’  I liked  to  ’ear  it  I did,  but  I beant  sich  a fool  as  ye  thinks ; 

Ye  was  stroakin  ma  down  wi’  the  ’air,  as  I be  a-stroakin  o’  you, 

But  whiniver  I loook’d  i’  the  glass  I wur  sewer  that  it  couldn’t  be  true ; 
Niver  wur  pretty,  not  I,  but  ye  knaw’d  it  wur  pleasant  to  ’ear, 

Thaw  it  warn’t  not  me  es  wur  pretty,  but  my  two  ’oonderd  a-year. 


D’ya  mind  the  murnin’  when  we  was  a-walkin’  togither,  an’  stood 
By  the  claay’d-oop  pond,  that  the  foalk  be  sa  scared  at,  i’  Gigglesby  wood, 
Wheer  the  poor  wench  drowndid  hersen,  black  Sal,  es  ’ed  been  disgraaced  ? 
An’  I feel’d  thy  arm  es  I stood  wur  a-creeapin  about  my  waliist; 

An’  me  es  wur  alius  afear’d  of  a man’s  gittiiT  ower  fond, 

I sidled  awaay  an’  awaay  till  I plumpt  foot  fust  i’  the  pond; 

And,  Robby,  I niver  ’a  liked  tha  sa  well,  as  I did  that  daay, 

Fur  tha  joompt  in  thysen,  an’  tha  hoickt  my  feet  wi*  a flop  fro’  the  claay. 
Ay,  stick  oop  thy  back,  an’  set  oop  thy  taail,  tha  may  gie  ma  a kiss, 

Fur  I walk’d  wi’  tha  all  the  way  hoam  an’  wur  niver  sa  nigh  saayin’  Yis. 
Uut  wa  boath  was  i’  sich  a clat  we  was  shaamed  to  cross  Gigglesby  Greean, 
Fur  a cat  may  loook  at  a king  thou  knaws  but  the  cat  mun  be  clean. 

Sa  we  boath  on  us  kep  out  o’  sight  o’  the  winders  o’  Gigglesby  Hinn  — 
Naay,  but  the  claws  o’  tha!  quiet!  they  pricks  clean  thruf  to  the  skin  — 
An’  wa  boath  slinkt  ’oam  by  the  brokken  shed  i’  the  laane  at  the  back, 
Wheer  the  poodle  runn’d  at  tha’  once,  an’  thou  runn’d  oop  o’  the  thack ; 

An’  tha  squeedg’d  my  ’and  i’  the  shed,  fur  theere  we  was  forced  to  ’ide, 

Fur  I seed  that  Steevie  wur  coomin’,  and  one  o’  the  Tommies  beside. 

VII. 

Theere  now,  w'nat  art’a  mewin  at,  Steevie  7 for  owt  I can  tell- — 

Robby  wur  fust  to  be  sewer,  or  I mowt  ’a  liked  tha  as  well. 


THE  SPINSTERS  SIVEET-ARTS. 


617 


VIII. 

>ut,  Robby,  I thowt  o’  tha  all  the  while  I wur  chaangin’  my  gown, 

in’  I thowt  shall  I chaange  my  staate  ? but,  0 Lord,  upo’  coomin’  down  — 

ly  bran-new  carpet  es  fresh  es  a midder  o’  flowers  i’  Maay  — 

^hy  ’edn’t  tha  wiped  thy  shoes  2 it  wur  clatted  all  ower  wi’  claay. 
n’  I could  ’a  cried  ammost,  fur  I seed  that  it  couldn’t  be, 

.n’  Robby  I gied  tha  a raatin  that  sattled  thy  coortin  o’  me. 
n’  Molly  an’  me  was  agreed,  as  we  was  a-cleanin’  the  floor, 

'hat  a man  be  a durty  thing  an’  a trouble  an’  plague  wi’  indoor, 
lut  I rued  it  arter  a bit,  fur  I stuck  to  tha  more  na  the  rest, 
iut  I couldn’t  ’a  lived  wi’  a man  an’  I knaws  it  be  all  fur  the  best. 


aay  — let  ma  stroak  tha  down  till  I maakes  tha  as  smooth  as  silk, 
ut  if  I ’ed  married  tha,  Robby,  thou’d  not  ’a  been  worth  thy  milk, 
hou’d  niver  ’a  cotch’d  ony  mice  but  ’a  left  me  the  work  to  do, 
nd  ’a  taaen  to  the  bottle  beside,  so  es  all  that  I ’ears  be  true  , 
ut  I loovs  tha  to  maake  thysen  ’appy,  an’  soa  purr  awaay,  my  dear, 
hou  ’ed  wellnigh  purr’d  ma  awaay  fro’  my  oan  two  ’oonderd  a-year. 

x. 

weSrin  agean,  you  Toms,  as  ye  used  to  do  twelve  years  sin’ ! 
e niver  ’eard  Steevie  swear  ’cep’  it  wur  at  a dog  coomin’  in. 
n’  boath  o’  ye  mun  be  fools  to  be  hallus  a-shawin’  your  claws, 
ur  I niver  cared  nothink  for  neither  — an’  one  o’  ye  dead  ye  knaws! 
oom  giv  hoaver  then,  weant  ye  2 I warrant  ye  soom  fine  daay — 
heere,  lig  down  — I shall  hev  to  gie  one  or  tother  awaay. 
an’t  ye  taake  pattern  by  Steevie  ? ye  shant  hev  a drop  fro’  the  paail. 
teevie  be  right  good  manners  bang  thruf  to  the  tip  o’  the  taail. 

XI. 

obby,  git  down  wi’tha,  wilt  tha  2 let  Steevie  coom  oop  o’  my  knee, 
teevie,  my  lad,  thou  ’ed  very  nigh  been  the  Steevie  fur  me ! 
obby  wur  fust  to  be  sewer,  ’e  wur  burn  an’  bred  i’  the  ’ouse, 
ut  thou  be  es  ’ansom  a tabby  as  iver  patted  a mouse. 

XII. 

n’  I beant  not  vaain,  but  I knaws  I ’ed  led  tha  a quieter  life 
or  her  wi’  the  hepitaph  yonder!  “A  faaithful  an’  loovin’  wife!  ” 
n’  ’cos  o’  thy  farm  by  the  beck,  an’  thy  windmill  oop  o’  the  croft, 
ia  thowt  tha  would  marry  ma,  did  tha  2 but  that  wur  a bit  ower  softs 
; law  thou  was  es  soaber  as  daay,  wi’  a niced  red  faace,  an’  es  clean 
? a shillin’  fresh  fro’  the  mint  wi’  a bran-new  ’ead  o’  the  Queeiin, 
n’  thy  farmin’  es  clean  es  thysen,  fur,  Steevie,  tha  kep’  it  sa  neat 
lat  I niver  not  spied  sa  much  as  a poppy  along  wi’  the  wheat, 
u’  the  wool  of  a thistle  a-flyin’  an’  seeadin’  tha  haated  to  see ; 
wur  as  bad  as  a battle-twig1  ’ere  i’  my  oan  blue  chaumber  to  me. 
y,  roob  thy  whiskers  agean  ma,  fur  I could  ’a  taaen  to  tha  well, 
ut  fur  thy  bairns,  poor  Steevie,  a bouncin’  boy  an’  a gell. 


1 Earwig. 


618 


THE  SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS. 


XIII. 

An’  thou  was  es  fond  o’  thy  bairns  es  I be  mysen  o’  my  cats, 

But  I niver  not  wish’d  fur  childer,  I hevn’t  naw  likin’  fur  brats ; 

Pretty  anew  when  ya  dresses  ’em  oop,  an’  they  goas  fur  a walk, 

Or  sits  wi’  their  ’ands  afoor  ’em,  an’  doesn’t  not  ’inder  the  talk ! 

But  their  bottles  o’  pap,  an’  their  mucky  bibs,  an’  the  clats  an’  the  clouts, 
An’  their  mashin’  their  toys  to  pieaces  an’  maakin’  ma  deaf  wi’  their  shouts, 
An’  hallus  a-joompin’  about  ma  as  if  they  was  set  upo’  springs, 

An’  a haxin’  ma  hawkard  questions,  an’  saayin’  ondecent  things, 

An’  a-callin’  ma  “ hugly  ” mayhap  to  my  faaee,  or  a tearin’  my  gown  — 
Dear!  dear!  dear!  1 mun  part  them  Tommies  — Steevie  git  down. 

XIV. 

Ye  be  wuss  nor  the  men-tommies,  you.  I tell’d  ya,  na  moor  o’  that ! 

Tom,  lig  theere  o’  the  cushion,  an’  tother  Tom  ’ere  o’  the  mat. 


xv. 

Theere!  I ha’  master’d  them!  Hed  I married  the  Tommies  — O Lord, 

To  loove  an’  obaay  the  Tommies  ! I couldn’t  ’a  stuck  by  my  word. 

To  be  horder’d  about,  an’  waaked,  when  Molly ’d  put  out  the  light, 

By  a man  coomin’  in  wi’  a hiccup  at  ony  hour  o’  the  night! 

An’  the  taable  staain’d  wi’  ’is  aale,  an’  the  mud  o’  ’is  boots  o’  the  stairs, 

An’  the  stink  o’  ’is  pipe  i’  the  ’ouse,  an’  the  mark  o’  ’is  ’ead  o’  the  chairs  ! 
An’  noan  o’  my  four  sweet-arts  ’ud  ’a  let  me  ’a  hed  my  oan  waay, 

Sa  I likes  ’em  best  wi’  taails  when  they  ’evn’t  a word  to  saay. 

XVI. 

An’  I sits  i’  my  oan  little  parlor,  an’  sarved  by  my  oan  little  lass, 

Wi’  my  oan  little  garden  outside,  an’  my  oan  bed  o’  sparrow-grass, 

An’  my  oan  door-poorch  wi’  the  woodbine  an’  jessmine  a-dressin’  it  greean, 
An’  my  oan  fine  Jackman  i’  purple  a roabin’  the  ’ouse  like  a Queean. 


cvn. 

An’  the  little  gells  bobs  to  ma  hoffens  es  I be  abroad  i’  the  laanes, 

When  I goas  to  coomfut  the  poor  es  be  down  wi’  their  haaches  an’  their  paains 
An’  a hakf-pot  o’  jam,  or  a mossel  o’  meat  when  it  beant  too  dear, 

They  maakes  ma  a graater  Laady  nor  ’er  i’  the  mansion  theer, 

Hes  ’es  hallus  to  hax  of  a man  how  much  to  spare  or  to  spend; 

An’  a spinster  I be  an’  I will  be,  if  soa  please  God,  to  the  hend. 

XVIII. 

Mew ! mew  ! — Bess  wi’  the  milk ! what  ha’  maade  our  Molly  sa  laate  ? 

It  should  ’a  been  ’ere  by  seven,  an’  theere — it  be  strikin’  height 
“ Cushie  wur  craazed  fur  ’er  cauf  ” well  — I ’eard  ’er  a maakin’  er  moan, 

An’  I thowt  to  mysen  “ thank  God  that  I hevn’t  naw  cauf  o’  my  oan.’ 

Theere  ! 

Set  it  down ! 

NowRobby! 

You  Tommies  shall  waait  to-nig 

Till  Robby  an’  Steevie  ’es  ’ed  their  lap  — an’  it  sarves  ye  right. 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


619 


BALIN  AND  BALAN.1 

jellam  the  King,  who  held  and  lost 
with  Lot 

n that  first  war,  and  had  his  realm 
restored 

$ut  render’d  tributary,  fail’d  of  late 
’o  send  his  tribute ; wherefore  Ar- 
thur call’d 

lis  treasurer,  one  of  many  years,  and 
spake, 

Go  thou  with  him  and  him  and 
bring  it  to  us, 

<est  we  should  set  one  truer  on  his 
throne. 

Ian’s  word  is  God  in  man.” 

His  Baron  said 
We  go  but  harken  : there  be  two 
strange  knights 

V'ho  sit  near  Camelot  at  a fountain- 
side, 

k mile  beneath  the  forest,  challeng- 
ing 

md  overthrowing  every  knight  who 
comes. 

V'ilt  thou  I undertake  them  as  we 
pass, 

md  send  them  to  thee  ? ” 

Arthur  laugh’d  upon  him. 
Old  friend,  too  old  to  be  so  young, 
depart, 

>elay  not  thou  for  ought,  but  let 
them  sit, 

ntil  they  find  a lustier  than  them- 
selves.” 

So  these  departed.  Early,  one  fair 
dawn, 

he  light-wing’d  spirit  of  his  youth 
return’d 

n Arthur’s  heart ; he  arm’d  himself 
and  went, 

0 coming  to  the  fountain-side  beheld 
alin  and  Balan  sitting  statuelike, 
rethren,  to  right  and  left  the  spring, 

that  down, 

rom  underneath  a plume  of  lady-fern, 
ang,  and  the  sand  danced  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it. 

nd  on  the  right  of  Balin  Balin’s 
horse 

1 * 

* 1 An  introduction  to  “ Merlin  and  Vivien.'* 


Was  fast  beside  an  alder,  on  the  left 

Of  Balan  Balan’s  near  a poplartree. 

“ Fair  Sirs,”  said  Arthur,  “ wherefore 
sit  ye  here  ? ” 

Balin  and  Balan  answer’d  “For  the 
sake 

Of  glory ; we  be  mightier  men  than 
all 

In  Arthur’s  court ; that  also  have  we 
proved  ; 

For  whatsoever  knight  against  us 
came 

Or  I or  he  have  easily  overthrown.” 

“ I too,”  said  Arthur,  “ am  of  Arthur’s 
hall, 

But  rather  proven  in  his  Paynim 
wars 

Than  famous  jousts ; but  see,  or 
proven  or  not, 

Whether  me  likewise  ye  can  over- 
throw.” 

And  Arthur  lightly  smote  the  breth- 
ren down, 

And  lightly  so  return’d,  and  no  man 
knew. 

Then  Balin  rose,  and  Balan,  and 
beside 

The  carolling  water  set  themselves 
again, 

And  spake  no  word  until  the  shadow 
turn’d ; 

When  from  the  fringe  of  coppice 
round  them  burst 

A spangled  pursuivant,  and  crying 
“ Sirs, 

Rise,  follow ! ye  be  sent  ior  by  the 
King,” 

They  follow’d ; whom  when  Arthur 
seeing  ask’d 

“Tell  me  your  names;  why  sat  ye 
by  the  well  ? ” 

Balin  the  stillness  of  a minute  broke 

Saying  “An  unmelodious  name  to 
thee, 

Balin,  ‘ the  Savage  ’ — that  addition 
thine  — 

My  brother  and  my  better,  this  man 
here, 

Balan.  I smote  upon  the  naked 
skull 

A thrall  of  thine  in  open  hall,  my 
hand 


620 


BALIN  AND  BALAM . 


Was  gauntleted,  half  slew  him ; for 
I heard 

He  had  spoken  evil  of  me;  thy  just 
wrath 

Sent  me  a three-years’  exile  from 
thine  eyes. 

I have  not  lived  my  life  delight- 
somely : 

For  I that  did  that  violence  to  thy 
thrall, 

Had  often  wrought  some  fury  on  my- 
self, 

Saving  for  Balan : those  three  king- 
less  years 

Have  past  — were  wormwood-bitter 
to  me.  King, 

Methought  that  if  we  sat  beside  the 
well, 

And  hurl’d  to  ground  what  knight 
soever  spurr’d 

Against  us,  thou  would’st  take  me 
gladlier  back, 

And  make,  as  ten-times  worthier  to 
be  thine 

Than  twenty  Balins,  Balan  knight. 
I have  said. 

Not  so  — not  all.  A man  of  thine 
to-day 

Abash’d  us  both,  and  brake  my  boast. 
Thy  will  ? ” 

Said  Arthur  “ Thou  hast  ever  spoken 
truth ; 

Thy  too  fierce  manhood  would  not 
let  thee  lie. 

Rise,  my  true  knight.  As  children 
learn,  be  thou 

Wiser  for  falling ! walk  with  me, 
and  move 

To  music  with  thine  Order  and  the 
King. 

Thy  chair,  a grief  to  all  the  brethren, 
stands 

Vacant,  but  thou  retake  it,  mine 
again ! ” 

Thereafter,  when  Sir  Balin  enter’d 
hall, 

The  Lost  one  Found  was  greeted  as 
in  Heaven 

With  joy  that  blazed  itself  in  wood- 
land wealth 

Of  leaf,  and  gayest  garlandage  of 
flowers, 


Along  the  walls  and  down  the  board ; 
they  sat, 

And  cup  clash’d  cup ; they  drank 
and  some  one  sang, 

Sweet-voiced,  a song  of  welcome, 
whereupon 

Their  common  shout  in  chorus 
mounting,  made 

Those  banners  of  twelve  battles  over 
head 

Stir,  as  they  stirr’d  of  old,  when  Ar 
thur’s  host 

Proclaim’d  him  Victor,  and  the  day 
was  won. 

Then  Balan  added  to  their  Order 
lived 

A wealthier  life  than  heretofore  withj 
these 

And  Balin,  till  their  embassage  re 
turn’d. 

“Sir  King”  they  brought  report 
“we  hardly  found, 

So  bush’d  about  it  is  with  gloom,  the 
hall 

Of  him  to  whom  ye  sent  us,  Pellam, 
once 

A Christless  foe  of  thine  as  ever) 
dash’d 

Horse  against  horse ; but  seeing  thal 
thy  realm 

Hath  prosper’d  in  the  name  of  Christ 
the  King 

Took,  as  in  rival  heat,  to  holy  things 

And  finds  himself  descended  from  the 
Saint 

Arimathaean  Joseph;  him  who  first 

Brought  the  great  faith  to  Britain 
over  seas ; 

He  boasts  his  life  as  purer  than  thin; 
own  ; 

Eats  scarce  enow  to  keep  his  puls< 
abeat ; 

Hath  push’d  aside  his  faithful  wife 
nor  lets 

Or  dame  or  damsel  enter  at  hi 
gates 

Lest  he  should  be  polluted.  Thi 
gray  King 

Show’d  us  a shrine  wherein  were  won 
ders  — yea  — 

Rich  arks  with  priceless  bones  o 
martyrdom, 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


621 


horns  of  the  crown  and  shivers  of 
the  cross, 

nd  therewithal  (for  thus  he  told  us) 
brought 

y holy  Joseph  hither,  that  same  spear 
Therewith  the  Roman  pierced  the 
side  of  Christ. 

e much  amazed  us ; after,  when  we 
sought 

he  tribute,  answer'd  ‘ I have  quite 
foregone 

11  matters  of  this  world : Garlon, 
mine  heir 

f him  demand  it,'  which  this  Gar- 
lon gave 

rith  much  ado,  railing  at  thine  and 
thee. 

But  when  we  left,  in  those  deep 
woods  we  found 

knight  of  thine  spear-stricken  from 
behind, 

ead,  whom  we  buried ; more  than 
1 one  of  us 

ried  out  on  Garlon,  but  a woodman 
a there 

eported  of  some  demon  in  the  woods 
as  once  a man,  who  driven  by  evil 
tongues 

*om  all  his  fellows,  lived  alone,  and 
came 

) learn  black  magic,  and  to  hate  his 
kind 

ith  such  a hate,  that  when  he  died, 
his  soul 

icame  a Fiend,  which,  as  the  man 
in  life 

as  wounded  by  blind  tongues  he  saw 
not  whence, 

rikes  from  behind.  This  woodman 
show'd  the  cave 

om  which  he  sallies,  and  wherein 
he  dwelt. 

e saw  the  hoof-print  of  a horse,  no 
more." 

Then  Arthur,  “ Let  who  goes  before 
| me,  see 

i do  not  fall  behind  me:  foully 
slain 

id  villainously!  who  will  hunt  for 
me 

is  demon  of  the  woods  1 " Said 
Balan,  “I"! 


So  claim'd  the  quest  and  rode  away, 
but  first, 

Embracing  Balin,  “ Good,  my  brother, 
hear ! 

Let  not  thy  moods  prevail,  when  I am 
gone 

Who  used  to  lay  them  ! hold  them 
outer  fiends, 

Who  leap  at  thee  to  tear  thee ; shake 
them  aside, 

Dreams  ruling  when  wit  sleeps ! yea, 
but  to  dream 

That  any  of  these  would  wrong  thee, 
wrongs  thyself. 

Witness  their  flowery  welcome.  Bound 
are  they 

To  speak  no  evil.  Truly  save  for 
fears, 

My  fears  for  thee,  so  rich  a fellow- 
ship 

Would  make  me  wholly  blest:  thou 
one  of  them, 

Be  one  indeed  : consider  them,  and  all 

Their  bearing  in  their  common  bond 
of  love, 

No  more  of  hatred  than  in  Heaven 
itself, 

No  more  of  jealousy  than  in  Para- 
dise." 

So  Balan  warn’d,  and  went;  Balin 
remain’d : 

Who  — for  but  three  brief  moons  had 
glanced  away 

From  being  knighted  till  he  smote  the 
thrall, 

And  faded  from  the  presence  into 
years 

Of  exile  — now  would  strictlier  set 
himself 

To  learn  what  Arthur  meant  by  cour- 
tesy, 

Manhood,  and  knighthood ; wherefore 
hover'd  round 

Lancelot,  but  when  he  mark’d  his 
high  sweet  smile 

In  passing,  and  a transitory  word 

Made  knight  or  churl  or  child  or  dam- 
sel seem 

From  being  smiled  at  happier  in 
themselves  — 

Sigh’d,  as  a boy  lame-born  beneath  a 
height, 


622 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


That  glooms  his  valley,  sighs  to  see 
the  peak 

Sun-flush’d,  or  touch  at  night  the 
northern  star ; 

For  one  from  out  his  village  lately 
climb’d 

And  brought  report  of  azure  lands 
and  fair, 

Far  seen  to  left  and  right;  and  he 
himself 

Hath  hardly  scaled  with  help  a hun- 
dred feet 

Up  from  the  base:  so  Balin  marvel- 
ling oft 

How  far  beyond  him  Lancelot  seem’d 
to  move, 

Groan’d,  and  at  times  would  mutter, 
“ These  be  gifts, 

Born  with  the  blood,  not  learnable, 
divine, 

Beyond  my  reach.  Well  had  I 
foughten  - — well  — 

In  those  fierce  wars,  struck  hard  — 
and  had  I crown’d 

With  my  slain  self  the  heaps  of  whom 
I slew  — 

So  — better  ! — But  this  worship  of 
the  Queen, 

That  honor  too  wherein  she  holds  him 

— this, 

This  was  the  sunshine  that  hath  given 
the  man 

A growth,  a name  that  branches  o’er 
the  rest, 

And  strength  against  all  odds,  and 
what  the  King 

So  prizes  — overprizes  — gentleness. 

Her  likewise  would  I worship  an  I 
might. 

I never  can  be  close  with  her,  as  he 

That  brought  her  hither.  Shall  I 
pray  the  King 

To  let  me  bear  some  token  of  his 
Queen 

Whereon  to  gaze,  remembering  her 

— forget 

My  heats  and  violences  1 live  afresh  1 

What,  if  the  Queen  disdain’d  to  grant 
it!  nay 

Being  so  stately-gentle, would  she  make 

My  darkness  blackness  ? and  with 
how  sweet  grace 


She  greeted  my  return ! Bold  will 
be  — 

Some  goodly  cognizance  of  Guineven 

In  lieu  of  this  rough  beast  upon  m 
shield, 

Langued  gules,  and  tooth’d  with  grii 
ning  savagery.” 

And  Arthur,  when  Sir  Balin  sougl 
him,  said 

“ What  wilt  thou  bear  ? ” Balin  ws 
bold,  and  ask’d 

To  bear  her  own  crown-royal  upc 
shield, 

Whereat  she  smiled  and  turn’d  her  t 
the  King, 

Who  answer’d  “ Thou  shalt  put  tl 
crown  to  use. 

The  crown  is  but  the  shadow  of  tl 
King, 

And  this  a shadow’s  shadow,  let  hi 
have  it, 

So  this  will  help  him  of  his  vi 
lences ! ” 

“ No  shadow  ” said  Sir  Balin  “ O n 
Queen, 

But  light  to  me ! no  shadow,  0 my  Kii 

But  golden  earnest  of  a gentler  life 

So  Balin  bare  the  crown,  and  : 
the  knights 

Approved  him,  and  the  Queen,  ai 
all  the  world 

Made  music,  and  he  felt  his  ben 
move 

In  music  with  his  Order,  and  t 
King. 

The  nightingale,  full-toned  in  m: 
die  May, 

Hath  ever  and  anon  a note  so  thin 

It  seems  another  voice  in  oth 
groves; 

Thus,  after  some  quick  burst  of  si 
den  wrath, 

The  music  in  him  seem’d  to  chans 
and  grow 

Faint  and  far-off. 

And  once  he  saw  the  thr 

His  passion  half  had  gauntleted 
, death, 

That  causer  of  his  banishment  a 
shame, 

Smile  at  him,  as  he  deem’d,  presun 
tuously ; 


BALIN’  AND  BALAN. 


623 


is  arm  half  rose  to  strike  again,  but 
fell : 

lie  memory  of  that  cognizance  on 
shield 

jfeighted  it  down,  but  in  himself  he 
moan’d: 

“Too  high  this  mount  of  Camelot 
for  me  : 

hese  high-set  courtesies  are  not  for 
me. 

lall  I not  rather  prove  the  worse 
for  these  ? 

ierier  and  stormier  from  restraining, 
break 

ito  some  madness  ev’n  before  the 
Queen  ? ” 

Thus,  as  a hearth  lit  in  a mountain 
home, 

nd  glancing  on  the  window,  when 
the  gloom 

f twilight  deepens  round  it,  seems  a 
flame 

hat  rages  in  the  woodland  far  below, 
> when  his  moods  were  darken’d, 

I court, and  King 

nd  all  the  kindly  warmth  of  Ar- 
thur’s hall 

ladow’d  an  angry  distance : yet  he 
„ strove 

) learn  the  graces  of  their  Table, 
j fought 

ard  with  himself,  and  seem’d  at 
I length  in  peace. 

Then  chanced,  one  morning,  that 
Sir  Balin  sat 

ose-bower’d  in  that  garden  nigh  the 
hall. 

walk  of  roses  ran  from  door  to 
door ; 

walk  of  lilies  crost  it  to  the  bower : 
id  down  that  range  of  roses  the 
r great  Queen 

me  with  slow  steps,  the  morning 
on  her  face ; 

id  all  in  shadow  from  the  counter 
door 

” Lancelot  as  to  meet  her,  then  at 
once, 

if  he  saw  not,  glanced  aside,  and 
j paced 

le  long  white  walk  of  lilies  toward 
the  bower. 


Follow’d  the  Queen;  Sir  Balin  heard 
her  “ Prince, 

Art  thou  so  little  loyal  to  thy  Queen, 

As  pass  without  good  morrow  to  thy 
Queen  ? ” 

To  whom  Sir  Lancelot  with  his  eyes 
on  earth, 

“ Fain  would  I still  be  loyal  to  the 
Queen.” 

“Yea  so”  she  said  “but  so  to  pass 
me  by  — 

So  loyal  scarce  is  loyal  to  thyself, 

Whom  all  men  rate  the  king  of  cour- 
tesy. 

Let  be  : ye  stand,  fair  lord,  as  in  a 
dream.” 

Then  Lancelot  with  his  hand  among 
the  flowers 

“ Yea  — for  a dream.  Last  night  me* 
thought  I saw 

That  maiden  Saint  who  stands  with 
lily  in  hand 

In  yonder  shrine.  All  round  her 
prest  the  dark, 

And  all  the  light  upon  her  silver 
face 

Flow’d  from  the  spiritual  lily  that 
she  held. 

Lo!  these  her  emblems  drew  mine 
eyes  — away  : 

For  see,  how  perfect-pure!  As  light 
a flush 

As  hardly  tints  the  blossom  of  the 
quince 

Would  mar  their  charm  of  stainless 
maidenhood.” 

“Sweeter  to  me”  she  said  “this 
garden  rose 

Deep-hued  and  many -folded  ! sweeter 
still 

The  wild-wood  hyacinth  and  the 
bloom  of  May. 

Prince,  we  have  ridd’n  before  among 
the  flowers 

In  those  fair  days  — not  all  as  cool  as 
these, 

Tho’  season-earlier.  Art  thou  sad  ? 
or  sick  ? 

Our  noble  King  will  send  thee  his 
own  leech  — 

Sick  ? or  for  any  matter  anger’d  at 
me?” 


624 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


Then  Lancelot  lifted  his  large  eyes ; 
they  dwelt 

Deep-tranced  on  hers,  and  could  not 
fall : her  hue 

Changed  at  his  gaze : so  turning  side 
by  side 

They  past,  and  Balin  started  from 
his  bower. 

“ Queen  ? subject  ? but  I see  not 
what  I see. 

Damsel  and  lover  ? hear  not  what  I 
hear. 

My  father  hath  begotten  me  in  his 
wrath. 

I suffer  from  the  things  before  me, 
know, 

Learn  nothing  ; am  not  worthy  to  be 
knight ; 

A churl,  a" clown  ! ” and  in  him  gloom 
on  gloom 

Deepen’d : he  sharply  caught  his 
lance  and  shield, 

Nor  stay’d  to  crave  permission  of  the 
king, 

But,  mad  for  strange  adventure, 
dash’d  away. 

He  took  the  selfsame  track  as  Ba- 
lan,  saw 

The  fountain  where  they  sat  together, 
sigh’d 

“ Was  I not  better  there  with  him  ? ” 
and  rode 

The  skyless  woods,  but  under  open 
blue 

Came  on  the  hoarhead  woodman  at  a 
bough 

Wearily  hewing,  “ Churl,  thine  axe  ! 
he  cried, 

Descended,  and  disjointed  it  at  a 
blow : 

To  whom  the  woodman  utter’d  won- 
deringly 

“ Lord,  thou  couldst  lay  the  Devil  of 
these  woods 

If  arm  of  flesh  could  lay  him.”  Ba- 
lin cried 

u Him,  or  the  viler  devil  who  plays 
his  part, 

To  lay  that  devil  would  lay  the  Devil 
in  me.” 

u Nay  ” said  the  churl,  u our  devil  is  a 

truth, 


I saw  the  flash  of  him  but  yestereven 

And  some  do  say  that  our  Sir  Garlor 
too 

Hath  learn’d  black  magic,  and  to  rid» 
unseen. 

Look  to  the  cave.”  But  Balit 
answer’d  him 

“ Old  fabler,  these  be  fancies  of  th 
churl, 

Look  to  thy  woodcraft,”  and  so  leavj 
ing  him, 

Now  with  slack  rein  and  careless  c 
himself, 

Now  with  dug  spur  and  raving  a 
himself, 

Now  with  droopt  brow  down  the  Ion 
glades  he  rode  ; 

So  mark’d  not  on  his  right  a caven 
chasm 

Yawn  over  darkness,  where,  not  fa 
within 

The  whole  day  died,  but,  dyin 
gleam’d  on  rocks 

Roof-pendent,  sharp ; and  others  fro^ 
the  floor, 

Tusklike,  arising,  made  that  mout| 
of  night 

Whereout  the  Demon  issued  up  fro 
Hell. 

He  mark’d  not  this,  but  blind  ai 
deaf  to  all 

Save  that  chain’d  rage,  which  ev* 
yelpt  within, 

Past  eastward  from  the  falling  su 
At  once 

He  felt  the  hollow-beaten  moss 
thud 

And  tremble,  and  then  the  shadow 
a spear, 

Shot  from  behind  him,  ran  along  tl 
ground. 

Sideways  he  started  from  the  pat 
and  saw, 

With  pointed  lance  as  if  to  pierce 
shape, 

A light  of  armor  by  him  flash,  and  pa 

And  vanish  in  the  woods ; and  f« 
low’d  this, 

But  all  so  blind  in  rage  that  ur 

wares 

He  burst  his  lance  against  a fon 
bough, 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


625 


ishorsed  himself,  and  rose  again, 
and  fled 

ir,  till  the  castle  of  a King,  the  hall 
: Pellam,  lichen-bearded,  grayly 
draped 

ith  streaming  grass,  appear’d,  low- 
built  but  strong ; 

le  ruinous  donjon  as  a knoll  of 
moss, 

ie  battlement  overtopt  with  ivy  tods, 
home  of  bats,  in  every  tower  an 
owl. 

Then  spake  the  men  of  Pellam  cry- 
ing “ Lord, 

hy  wear  ye  this  crown-royal  upon 
shield  ? ” 

id  Balin  “ For  the  fairest  and  the 
best 

? ladies  living  gave  me  this  to 
bear.” 

stall’d  his  horse,  and  strode  across 
the  court, 

it  found  the  greetings  both  of 
knight  and  King 

int  in  the  low  dark  hall  of  banquet : 

I leaves 

id  their  green  faces  flat  against  the 
J panes, 

rays  grated,  and  the  canker’d 
boughs  without 

hined  in  the  wood;  for  all  was 
? hush’d  within, 

II  when  at  feast  Sir  Garlon  likewise 

1 ask’d 

Vhy  wear  ye  that  crown-royal  ?” 
Balin  said 

?he  Queen  we  worship,  Lancelot, 
I,  and  all, 

fairest,  best  and  purest,  granted 
] me 

bear  it!”  Such  a sound  (for 
r Arthur’s  knights 

ere  hated  strangers  in  the  hall)  as 
makes 

e white  swan-mother,  sitting,  when 
r she  hears 

1 strange  knee  rustle  thro’  her  secret 
reeds, 

( ide  Garlon,  hissing;  then  he  sourly 
smiled. 

rairest  I grant  her:  I have  seen; 

; but  best, 


Best,  purest  ? thou  from  Arthur’s  hall, 
and  yet 

So  simple  ! hast  thou  eyes,  or  if,  are 
these 

So  far  besotted  that  they  fail  to  see 

This  fair  wife-worship  cloaks  a secret 
shame  ? 

Truly,  ye  men  of  Arthur  be  but 
babes.” 

A goblet  on  the  board  by  Balin, 
boss’d 

With  holy  Joseph’s  legend,  on  hie 
right 

Stood,  all  of  massiest  bronze:  one 
side  had  sea 

And  ship  and  sail  and  angels  blowing 
on  it : 

And  one  was  rough  with  pole  and 
scaffoldage 

Of  that  low  church  he  built  at  Glas- 
tonbury. 

This  Balin  graspt,  but  while  in  act  to 
hurl, 

Thro’  memory  of  that  token  on  the 
shield 

Relax’d  his  hold  : “ I will  be  gentle  ” 
he  thought 

“And  passing  gentle”  caught  his 
hand  away, 

Then  fiercely  to  Sir  Garlon  “ eyes 
have  I 

That  saw  to-day  the  shadow  of  a spear, 

Shot  from  behind  me,  run  along  the 
ground ; 

Eyes  too  that  long  have  watch’d  how 
Lancelot  draws 

From  homage  to  the  best  and  purest, 
might, 

Name,  manhood,  and  a grace,  but 
scantly  thine, 

Who,  sitting  in  thine  own  hall,  canst 
endure 

To  mouth  so  huge  a foulness  — to 
thy  guest, 

Me,  me  of  Arthur’s  Table.  Felon 
talk ! 

Let  be  ! no  more  ! ” 

But  not  the  less  by  night 

The  scorn  of  Garlon,  poisoning  all 
his  rest, 

Stung  him  in  dreams.  At  length,  and 
dim  thro’  leaves 


626 


BAL1N  AND  BALAN. 


Blinkt  the  white  morn,  sprays  grated, 
and  old  boughs 

Whined  in  the  wood.  He  rose,  de- 
scended, met 

The  scorner  in  the  castle  court,  and 
fain, 

For  hate  and  loathing,  would  have 
past  him  by ; 

But  when  Sir  Garlon  utter’d  mocking- 
wise  ; 

What,  wear  ye  still  that  same  crown- 
scandalous  1 ” 

His  countenance  blacken’d,  and  his 
forehead  veins 

Bloated,  and  branch’d;  and  tearing 
out  of  sheath 

The  brand,  Sir  Balin  with  a fiery 
“ Ha! 

So  thou  be  shadow,  here  I make  thee 
ghost,” 

Hard  upon  helm  smote  him,  and  the 
blade  flew 

Splintering  in  six,  and  clinkt  upon 
the  stones. 

Then  Garlon,  reeling  slowly  back- 
ward, fell, 

And  Balin  by  the  banneret  of  his  helm 

Dragg’d  him,  and  struck,  but  from 
the  castle  a cry 

Sounded  across  the  court,  and  — men- 
at-arms, 

A score  with  pointed  lances,  making 
at  him  — 

He  dash’d  the  pummel  at  the  fore- 
most face, 

Beneath  a low  door  dipt,  and  made 
his  feet 

Wings  thro’  a glimmering  gallery 
till  he  mark’d 

The  portal  of  King  Pellam’s  chapel 
wide 

And  inward  to  the  wall;  he  stept 
behind ; 

Thence  in  a moment  heard  them  pass 
like  wolves 

Howling ; but  while  he  stared  about 
the  shrine* 

In  which  he  scarce  could  spy  the 
Christ  for  Saints, 

Beheld  before  a golden  altar  lie 

The  longest  lance  his  eyes  had  ever 
seen. 


Point-painted  red ; and  seizing  then 
upon 

Push’d  thro’  an  open  casement  dowi 
lean’d  on  it, 

Leapt  in  a semicircle,  and  lit  on  eartl| 

Then  hand  at  ear,  and  harkening  fro 
what  side 

The  blindfold  rummage  buried  in  tl1 
walls 

Might  echo,  ran  the  counter  path,  ai 
found 

His  charger,  mounted  on  him  a 
away. 

An  arrow  whizz’d  to  the  right,  one 
the  left, 

One  overhead;  and  Pellam’s  feel] 
cry 

“ Stay,  stay  him  ! he  defileth  heaven 
things 

With  earthly  uses” — made  h 
quickly  dive 

Beneath  the  boughs,  and  race  th 
many  a mile 

Of  dense  and  open,  till  his  good 
horse, 

Arising  wearily  at  a fallen  oak, 

Stumbled  headlong,  and  cast  him  fa 
to  ground. 

Half-wroth  he  had  not  ended,  t 
all  glad, 

Knightlike,  to  find  his  charger  3 
unlamed, 

Sir  Balin  drew  the  shield  from  off  1 
neck, 

Stared  at  the  priceless  cognizance,  a 
thought 

“ I have  shamed  thee  so  that  n 
thou  shamest  me, 

Thee  will  I bear  no  more,”  high  01 
branch 

Hung  it,  and  turn’d  aside  into  \ 
woods, 

And  there  in  gloom  cast  himself 
along, 

Moaning  “My  violences,  my  v 
lences ! ” 

But  now  the  wholesome  music 
the  wood 

Was  dumb’d  by  one  from  out  the  li 
of  Mark, 

A damsel-errant,  warbling,  as  \ 
rode 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


627 


le  woodland  alleys,  Vivien,  with 
her  Squire. 

“ The  fire  of  Heaven  has  kill'd  the 
barren  cold, 

ad  kindled  all  the  plain  and  all  the 
wold. 

le  new  leaf  ever  pushes  off  the  old. 
le  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame 
of  Hell. 

Old  priest,  who  mumble  worship  in 
your  quire  — 

d monk  and  nun,  ye  scorn  the 
world’s  desire, 

it  in  your  frosty  cells  ye  feel  the 
fire ! 

le  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame 
of  Hell 

The  fire  of  Heaven  is  on  the  dusty 
ways. 

le  wayside  blossoms  open  to  the 
blaze. 

le  whole  wood-world  is  one  full 
peal  of  praise. 

le  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame 
of  Hell. 

The  fire  of  Heaven  is  lord  of  all 
things  good, 

id  starve  not  thou  this  fire  within 
thy  blood, 

it  follow  Vivien  thro’  the  fiery 
flood  ! 

le  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 
Hell ! ” 

Then  turning  to  her  Squire  “ This 
fire  of  Heaven, 

lis  old  sun-worship,  boy,  will  rise 
B agailb 

id  beat  the  cross  to  earth,  and  break 
‘0.  the  King 
id  all  his  Table.” 

Then  they  reach’d  a glade, 
here  under  one  long  lane  of  cloud- 
i less  air 

fore  another  wood,  the  royal  crown 
arkled,  and  swaying  upon  a restless 
elm 

*ew  the  vague  glance  of  Vivien,  and 
her  Squire ; 

nazed  were  these  ; “ Lo  there  ” she 
cried  — “ a crown  — 

>rne  by  some  high  lord-prince  of 
Arthur’s  hall. 


And  there  a horse  ! the  rider  1 where 
is  he  ? 

See,  yonder  lies  one  dead  within  the 
wood. 

Not  dead;  he  stirs! — but  sleeping. 
I will  speak. 

Hail,  royal  knight,  we  break  on  thy 
sweet  rest, 

Not,  doubtless,  all  unearn’d  by  noble 
deeds. 

But  bounden  art  thou,  if  from 
Arthur’s  hall, 

To  help  the  weak.  Behold,  I fly  from 
shame, 

A lustful  King,  who  sought  to  win  my 
love 

Thro’  evil  ways : the  knight,  with 
whom  I rode, 

Hath  suffer’d  misadventure,  and  my 
squire 

Hath  in  him  small  defence ; but  thou, 
Sir  Prince, 

Wilt  surely  guide  me  to  the  warrior 
King, 

Arthur  the  blameless,  pure  as  any 
maid, 

To  get  me  shelter  for  my  maiden- 
hood. 

I charge  thee  by  that  crown  upon  thy 
shield, 

And  by  the  great  Queen’s  name,  arise 
and  hence.” 

And  Balin  rose,  “ Thither  no  more  ! 
nor  Prince 

Nor  knight  am  I,  but  one  that  hath 
defamed 

The  cognizance  she  gave  me : here  I 
dwell 

Savage  among  the  savage  woods, 
here  die  — 

Die  : let  the  wolves’  black  maws  en- 
sepulchre 

Their  brother  beast,  whose  anger  was 
his  lord. 

0 me,  that  such  a name  as  Guine- 
vere’s, 

Which  our  high  Lancelot  hath  so 
lifted  up, 

And  been  thereby  uplifted,  should 
thro’  me, 

My  violence,  and  my  villainy,  come 
to  shame.” 


628 


BA  LIN  AND  BALAN 


Thereat  she  suddenly  laugh’d  and 
shrill,  anon 

Sigh'd  all  as  suddenly.  Said  Balin 
to  her 

“ Is  this  thy  courtesy  — to  mock  me, 
ha? 

Hence,  for  I will  not  with  thee." 
Again  she  sigh'd 

“ Pardon,  sweet  lord!  we  maidens 
often  laugh 

When  sick  at  heart,  when  rather  we 
should  weep. 

I knew  thee  wrong’d.  I brake  upon 
thy  rest, 

And  now  full  loth  am  I to  break  thy 
dream, 

But  thou  art  man,  and  canst  abide  a 
truth, 

Tho’  bitter.  Hither,  boy  — and  mark 
me  well. 

Dost  thou  remember  at  Caerleon 
once  — 

A year  ago  — nay,  then  I love  thee 
not  — 

Ay,  thou  rememberest  well  — one 
summer  dawn  — 

By  the  great  tower  — Caerleon  upon 
Usk  — 

Nay,  truly  we  were  hidden:  this  fair 
lord, 

The  flower  of  all  their  vestal  knight- 
hood, knelt 

In  amorous  homage  — knelt  — what 
else  ? — O ay 

Knelt,  and  drew  down  from  out  his 
night-black  hair 

And  mumbled  that  white  hand  whose 
ring’d  caress 

Had  wander'd  from  her  own  King's 
golden  head, 

And  lost  itself  in  darkness,  till  she 
cried  — 

I thought  the  great  tower  would  crash 
down  on  both  — 

* Rise,  my  sweet  king,  and  kiss  me  on 
the  lips, 

Thou  art  my  King.'  This  lad,  whose 
lightest  word 

Is  mere  white  truth  in  simple  naked- 
ness, 

Saw  them  embrace : he  reddens,  can- 
not speak. 


So  bashful,  he  l but  all  the  maider 
Saints, 

The  deathless  mother-maidenhood  05 
Heaven 

Cry  out  upon  her.  Up  then,  ride  witl 

me  ! 

Talk  not  of  shame ! thou  canst  not 
an  thou  would’st, 

Do  these  more  shame  than  these  hav^ 
done  themselves." 

She  lied  with  ease;  but  horror 
stricken  he, 

Remembering  that  dark  bower  a 
Camelot, 

Breathed  in  a dismal  whisper  “ It 
truth." 

Sunnily  she  smiled  " And  even  i 
this  lone  wood 

Sweet  lord,  ye  do  right  well  to  whia 
per  this. 

Fools  prate,  and  perish  traitor 
Woods  have  tongues, 

As  walls  have  ears : but  thou  sha 
go  with  me, 

And  we  will  speak  at  first  exceedir^ 
low. 

Meet  is  it  the  good  King  be  not  d 
ceived. 

See  now,  I set  thee  high  on  vantad 
ground, 

From  whence  to  watch  the  time,  ai} 
eagle-like 

Stoop  at  thy  will  on  Lancelot  and  tl 
Queen." 

She  ceased;  his  evil  spirit  up( 
him  leapt, 

He  ground  his  teeth  together,  sprat 
with  a yell, 

Tore  from  .the  branch,  and  cast  i 
earth,  the  shield, 

Drove  his  mail’d  heel  athwart  t 
royal  crown, 

Stampt  all  into  defacement,  hurj 
it  from  him 

Among  the  forest  weeds,  and  curs 
the  tale, 

The  told-of,  and  the  teller. 

That  weird  ye 

Unearthlier  than  all  shriek  of  bird 
beast, 

Thrill’d  thro'  the  woods ; and  Bal 
lurking  there 


BALIN  AND  BALAN 


629 


lis  quest  was  unaccomplish'd)  heard 
and  thought 

The  scream  of  that  Wood-devil  I 
came  to  quell ! ” 

len  nearing  “ Lo  ! he  hath  slain  some 
brother-knight, 

ad  tramples  on  the  goodly  shield  to 
show 

s loathing  of  our  Order  and  the 
Queen. 

y quest,  meseems,  is  here.  Or  devil 
or  man 

lard  thou  thine  head.”  Sir  Balin 
spake  not  word, 

it  snatch'd  a sudden  buckler  from 
the  Squire, 

id  vaulted  on  his  horse,  and  so  they 
crash'd 

onset,  and  King  Pellam's  holy 
spear, 

•puted  to  be  red  with  sinless 
blood, 

fdden'd  at  once  with  sinful,  for  the 
point 

iross  the  maiden  shield  of  Balan 
prick'd 

le  hauberk  to  the  flesh  ; and  Balin’s 
horse 

*as  wearied  to  the  death,  and,  when 
they  clash'd, 

filing  back  upon  Balin,  crush'd  the 
man 

'ward,  and  either  fell,  and  swoon'd 
away. 

QThen  to  her  Squire  mutter’d  the 
damsel  “ Fools ! 

iis  fellow  hath  wrought  some  foul- 
ness with  his  Queen : 

se  never  had  he  borne  her  crown, 
nor  raved 

id  thus  form’d  over  at  a rival 
name : 

t thou,  Sir  Chick,  that  scarce  hast 
broken  shell, 

! t yet  half-yolk,  not  even  come  to 
down  — 

tio  never  sawest  Caerleon  upon 
Usk  — 

1 d yet  hast  often  pleaded  for  my 
love  — 

•3  what  I see,  be  thou  where  I have 
been, 


Or  else  Sir  Chick  — dismount  and 
loose  their  casques 

I fain  would  know  what  manner  of 
men  they  be.” 

And  when  the  Squire  had  loosed  themp 
“ Goodly  ! — look ! 

They  might  have  cropt  the  myriad 
flower  of  May, 

And  butt  each  other  here,  like  brain 
less  bulls, 

Dead  for  one  heifer!” 

Then  the  gentle  Squire 

“ I hold  them  happy,  so  they  died  for 
love : 

And,  Vivien,  tho'  ye  beat  me  like 
your  dog, 

I too  could  die,  as  now  I live,  for 
thee.” 

“ Live  on,  Sir  Boy,”  she  cried.  “ I 
better  prize 

The  living  dog  than  the  dead  lion : 
away ! 

I cannot  brook  to  gaze  upon  the 
dead.” 

Then  leapt  her  palfrey  o’er  the  fallen 
oak, 

And  bounding  forward  “ Leave  them 
to  the  wolves.” 

But  when  their  foreheads  felt  the 
cooling  air, 

Balin  first  woke,  and  seeing  that  true 
face, 

Familiar  up  from  cradle-time,  so 
wan, 

Crawl'd  slowly  with  low  moans  to 
where  he  lay, 

And  on  his  dying  brother  cast  him- 
self 

Dying ; and  he  lifted  faint  eyes ; he 
felt 

One  near  him  ; all  at  once  they  found 
the  world, 

Staring  wild-wide  ; then  with  a child- 
like wail, 

And  drawing  down  the  dim  disastrous 
brow 

That  o’er  him  hung,  he  kiss'd  it, 
moan'd  and  spake  , 

“O  Balin,  Balin,  I that  fain  had 
died 

To  save  thy  life,  have  brought  the§ 
to  thy  death. 


630 


PROLOGUE  TO  GENERAL  HAMLEY. 


Why  had  ye  not  the  shield  I knew  1 
and  why 

Trampled  ye  thus  on  that  which  bare 
the  Crown  ? ” 

Then  Balin  told  him  brokenly,  and 
in  gasps, 

All  that  had  chanced,  and  Balan 
moan’d  again. 

“ Brother,  I dwelt  a day  in  Pellam’s 
hall : 

This  Garlon  mock’d  me,  but  I heeded 
not. 

And  one  said  'Eat  in  peace!  a liar 
is  he, 

And  hates  thee  for  the  tribute  ! ’ this 
good  knight 

Told  me,  that  twice  a wanton  damsel 
came, 

And  sought  for  Garlon  at  the  castle- 
gates, 

Whom  Pellam  drove  away  with  holy 
heat. 

I well  believe  this  damsel,  and  the 
one 

Who  stood  beside  thee  even  now,  the 
same. 

* She  dwells  among  the  woods  * he 
said  ‘ and  meets 

And  dallies  with  him  in  the  Mouth  of 
Hell.’ 

Foul  are  their  lives ; foul  are  their 
lips  ; they  lied. 

Pure  as  our  own  true  Mother  is  our 
Queen.” 

“ 0 brother  ” answer’d  Balin  “ Woe 
is  me ! 

My  madness  all  thy  life  has  been  thy 
doom, 

Thy  curse,  and  darken’d  all  thy  day ; 
and  now 

The  night  has  come.  I scarce  can 
see  thee  now. 

Goodnight ! for  we  shall  never  bid 
again 

Goodmorrow  — Dark  my  doom  was 
here,  and  dark 

It  will  be  there.  I see  thee  now  no 
more. 

I would  not  mine  again  should  darken 
thine, 

Goodnight,  true  brother,” 


Balan  answer’d  lo 

“ Goodnight,  true  brother  here  ! goo( 
morrow  there  ! 

We  two  were  born  together,  and  v 
die 

Together  by  one  doom  : ” and  whi 
he  spoke 

Closed  his  death-drowsing  eyes,  ai 
slept  the  sleep 

With  Balin,  either  lock’d  in  either 
arm. 


PROLOGUE  TO  GENERAL 
HAMLEY. 

Our  birches  yellowing  and  from  ea 
The  light  leaf  falling  fast, 

While  squirrels  from  our  fiery  bee* 
Were  bearing  off  the  mast, 

You  came,  and  look’d  and  loved  t 
view 

Long-known  and  loved  by  me, 
Green  Sussex  fading  into  blue 
With  one  gray  glimpse  of  sea; 
And,  gazing  from  this  height  alona 
We  spoke  of  what  had  been 
Most  marvellous  in  the  wars  yol 
own 

Crimean  eyes  had  seen ; 

And  now  — like  old-world  inns  tfc 
take 

Some  warrior  for  a sign 
That  tlierewithin  a guest  may  mak 
True  cheer  with  honest  wine  — 
Because  you  heard  the  lines  I read 
Nor  utter’d  word  of  blame, 

I dare  without  your  leave  to  head 
These  rhymings  with  your  name' 
Who  know  you  but  as  one  of  tlios^ 
I fain  would  meet  again, 

Yet  know  you,  as  your  England  knq 
That  you  and  all  your  men 
Were  soldiers  to  her  heart’s  desire 
When,  in  the  vanish’d  year, 

You  saw  the  league-long  rampart- 
Flare  from  Tel-el-Ivebir 
Thro’  darkness,  and  the  foe  was  driv 
And  Wolseley  overthrew 
Arabi,  and  the  stars  in  heaven 
Paled,  and  the  glory  grew. 


THE  CHAR  Or  E OR  THE  HEAVY  BRIGADE. 


631 


IE  CHARGE  OF  THE  HEAVY 
BRIGADE  AT  BALACLAVA. 

October  25,  1854. 

i. 

ie  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hun- 
dred, the  Heavy  Brigade ! 

>wn  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands 
of  Russians, 

lousands  of  horsemen,  drew  to  the 
valley  — and  stay’d ; 

>r  Scarlett  and  Scarlett’s  three  hun- 
dred were  riding  by 
hen  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances 
arose  in  the  sky  ; 

id  he  call’d  “ Left  wheel  into  line  ! ” 
and  thej'  wheel’d  and  obey’d, 
len  he  look’d  at  the  host  that  had 
halted  he  knew  not  why, 
id  he  turn’d  half  round,  and  he  bad 
his  trumpeter  sound 
> the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead, 
as  he  waved  his  blade 
the  gallant  three  hundred  whose 
glory  will  never  die  — 
follow,”  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
up  the  hill, 

llow’d  the  Heavy  Brigade. 
ii. 

e trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge, 
and  the  might  of  the  fight ! 
ousands  of  horsemen  had  gather’d 
there  on  the  height, 
ith  a wing  push’d  out  to  the  left, 
and  a wing  to  the  right, 

■ d who  shall  escape  if  they  close  ? 

but  he  dash’d  up  alone 
ro’  the  great  gray  slope  of  men, 

: ay’d  his  sabre,  and  held  his  own 
:e  an  Englishman  there  and  then ; 

in  a moment  follow’d  with  force 
! ree  that  were  next  in  their  fiery 
I course, 

Nidged  themselves  in  between  horse 
and  horse, 

light  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow 
gap  they  had  made  — 


t Four  amid  thousands  ! and  up  the  hill, 
up  the  hill, 

Gallopt  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the 
Heavy  Brigade. 

hi. 

Fell  like  a cannonshot, 

Burst  like  a thunderbolt, 

Crash’d  like  a hurricane, 

Broke  thro’  the  mass  from  below?, 
Drove  thro’  the  midst  of  the  foe. 
Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro. 
Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow, 

Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 
Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of 
light ! 

And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze, 

Who  were  held  for  a while  from  the 
fight, 

And  were  only  standing  at  gaze, 
When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 
Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the 
right, 

And  roll’d  them  around  like  a cloud, — 
0 mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle 
were  we, 

When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank 
from  sight, 

Like  drops  of  blood  in  a dark-gray  sea, 
And  we  turn’d  to  each  other,  whisper- 
ing, ail  dismay’d, 

“ Lost  are  the  gallant  three  hundred 
of  Scarlett’s  Brigade  ! ” 

iv. 

“ Lost  one  and  all”  were  the  words 
Mutter’d  in  our  dismay  ; 

But  they  rode  like  Victors  and  Lords 
Thro’  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes, 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay  — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 
The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 
Underfoot  there  in  the  fray  — 

Ranged  like  a storm  or  stood  like  a 
rock 

In  the  wave  of  a stormy  day ; 

Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 
Stagger’d  the  mass  from  without. 
Drove  it  in  wild  disarray, 


632 


EPILOGUE. 


For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a cheer 
and  a shout, 

And  the  foeman  surged,  and  waver’d, 
and  reel’d 

Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
out  of  the  field, 

And  over  the  brow  and  away. 


V. 

Glory  to  each  and  to  all , and  the  charg 
that  they  made  1 

Glory  to  all  the  three  hundred,  and  a; 
the  Brigade ! 


Note.-  — The  “ three  hundred  ” of  the  “ Heavy  Brigade  ” who  made  this  famous  charge  wei 
the  Scots  Greys  and  the  2nd  squadron  of  Inniskillings ; the  remainder  of  the  “ Heavy  Brigade 
subsequently  dashing  up  to  their  support. 

The  “ three  ” were  Scarlett’s  aide-de-camp,  Elliot,  and  the  trumpeter  and  Shegog  tl: 
orderly,  who  had  been  close  behind  him. 


EPILOGUE. 

Irene. 

Not  this  way  will  you  set  your  name 
A star  among  the  stars. 

Poet. 

What  way  ? 

Irene. 

You  praise  when  you  should 
blame 

The  barbarism  of  wars. 

A juster  epoch  has  begun. 

Poet. 

Yet  tho’  this  cheek  be  gray, 

And  that  bright  hair  the  modern  sun, 
Those  eyes  the  blue  to-day, 

You  wrong  me,  passionate  little  friend. 

I would  that  wars  should  cease, 

I would  the  globe  from  end  to  end 
Might  sow  and  reap  in  peace, 

And  some  new  Spirit  o’erbear  the  old, 
Or  Trade  re-frain  the  Powers 
From  war  with  kindly  links  of  gold, 
Or  Love  with  wreaths  of  flowers. 
Slav,  Teuton,  Kelt,  I count  them  ail 
My  friends  and  brother  souls, 

With  all  the  peoples,  great  and  small, 
That  wheel  between  the  poles. 

But  since,  our  mortal  shadow,  111 
To  waste  this  earth  began  — 
Perchance  from  some  abuse  of  Will 
In  worlds  before  the  man 


Involving  ours  — he  needs  must  figl 
To  make  true  peace  his  own, 

He  needs  must  combat  might  wi; 
might, 

Or  Might  would  rule  alone ; 

And  who  loves  War  for  War’s  ow 
sake 

Is  fool,  or  crazed,  or  worse ; 

But  let  the  patriot-soldier  take 
His  meed  of  fame  in  verse ; 

Nay  — tho’  that  realm  were  in  tl 
wrong 

For  which  her  warriors  bleed, 

It  still  were  right  to  crown  with  soi 
The  warrior’s  noble  deed  — 

A crown  the  Singer  hopes  may  last, 
For  so  the  deed  endures ; 

But  Song  will  vanish  in  the  Vast; 

And  that  large  phrase  of  yours 
“ A Star  among  the  stars,”  my  dear 
Is  girlish  talk  at  best; 

For  dare  we  dally  with  the  sphere 
As  he  did  half  in  jest, 

Old  Horace  ? “I  will  strike  ’’said  1 
“ The  stars  with  head  sublime,” 
But  scarce  could  see,  as  now  we  see 
The  man  in  Space  and  Time, 

So  drew  perchance  a happier  lot 
Than  ours,  who  rhyme  to-day. 
The  fires  that  arch  this  dusky  dot- 
Yon  myriad-worlded  way  — 

The  vast  sun-clusters’  gath?r’d  blaz 
World-isles  in  lonely  skies, 

Whole  heavens  within  themselvt 
amaze 

Our  brief  humanities ; 


TO  VIRGIL . 


633 


\nd  so  does  Earth;  for  Homer's 
fame, 

Tho'  carved  in  harder  stone  — 

The  falling  drop  will  make  his  name 
As  mortal  as  my  own. 


Let  it  live  then  — ay,  till  when? 
Earth  passes,  all  is  lost 
[n  what  they  prophesy,  our  wise  men, 
Sun-flame  or  sunless  frost, 

And  deed  and  song  alike  are  swept 
Away,  and  all  in  vain 
As  far  as  man  can  see,  except 
The  man  himself  remain; 

And  tho',  in  this  lean  age  forlorn, 
Too  many  a voice  may  cry 
That  man  can  have  no  after-morn, 
Not  yet  of  these  am  I. 

The  man  remains,  and  whatsoe'er 
He  wrought  of  good  or  brave 
Will  mould  him  thro’  the  cycle-year 
That  dawns  behind  the  grave. 


And  here  the  Singer  for  his  Art 
Not  all  in  vain  may  plead 
The  song  that  nerves  a nation's 
heart, 

Is  in  itself  a deed." 


TO  VIRGIL. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  THE 
MANTUANS  FOR  THE  NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY  OF  VIRGIL'S  DEATH. 

I. 

% 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 
Ilion’s  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 
Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising, 

wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's 
pyre; 


j,  Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language 

more  than  he  that  sang  the  Works 
and  Days, 


All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing  out  from  many  a golden 
phrase ; 

hi. 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  wood- 
land, 

tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse 
and  herd ; 

All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a lonely  word ; 

iv. 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus 

piping  underneath  his  be^chen 
bowers ; 

Poet  of  the  poet-satyr 

whom  the  laughing  shepherd 
bound  with  flowers ; 

v. 

Chanter  of  the  Pollio,  glorying 

in  the  blissful  years  again  to  be, 

Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 
unlaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea ; 

VI. 

Thou  that  seest  Universal 

Nature  moved  by  Universal 
Mind ; 

Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 

at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human 
kind ; 

VII. 

Light  among  the  vanish'd  ages  ; 

star  that  gildest  yet  this  phantom 
shore ; 

Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 
kings  and  realms  that  pass  to 
rise  no  more ; 

VIII. 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer, 

fallen  every  purple  Caesar’s 
dome  — 

Tho’  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 

sound  forever  of  Imperial 
Rome  — 


634 


THE  DEAD  PROPHET. 


IX. 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish’d, 
and  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds 
her  place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island 

sunder’d  once  from  all  the  hu- 
man race, 

x. 

I salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I that  loved  thee  since  my  day 
began, 

Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 


THE  DEAD  PROPHET. 

182-. 

1. 

Dead  ! 

And  the  Muses  cried  with  a stormy 
cry 

“ Send  them  no  more,  forevermore. 
Let  the  people  die.” 

ii. 

Dead ! 

“Is  it  he  then  brought  so  low  ? ” 
And  a careless  people  flock’d  from 
the  fields 

With  a purse  to  pay  for  the  show, 
in. 

Dead,  who  had  served  his  time, 

Was  one  of  the  people’s  kings, 

Had  labor’d  in  lifting  them  out  of 
slime, 

And  showing  them,  souls  have 
wings ! 

IV. 

Dumb  on  the  winter  heath  he  lay 
His  friends  had  stript  him  bare, 
And  roll’d  his  nakedness  everyway 
That  all  the  crowd  might  stare. 

v. 

A storm-worn  signpost  not  to  be  read, 
And  a tree  with  a moulder’d  nest 


On  its  barkless  bones,  stood  stark  by 
the  dead ; 

And  behind  him,  low  in  the  West, 

VI. 

With  shifting  ladders  of  shadow  and 
light, 

And  blurr’d  in  color  and  form, 

The  sun  hung  over  the  gates  of  Night, 

And  glared  at  a coming  storm. 

VII. 

Then  glided  a vulturous  Beldam  forths 

That  on  dumb  death  had  thriven  ; 

They  call’d  her  “Reverence”  here 
upon  earth, 

And  “The  Curse’ of  the  Prophet” 
in  Heaven. 

VIII. 

She  knelt  — “We  wqrship  him”  — 
all  but  wept  — 

“ So  great  so  noble  was  he  ! ” 

She  clear’d  her  sight,  she  arose,  she 
swept 

The  dust  of  earth  from  her  knee. 

ix. 

“ Great ! for  he  spoke  and  the  people 
heard, 

And  his  eloquence  caught  like  a 
flame 

From  zone  to  zone  of  the  world,  till 
his  Word 

Had  won  him  a noble  name. 

x. 

“ Noble  ! he  sung,  and  the  sweet  sound 
ran 

Thro’  palace  and  cottage  door, 

For  he  touch’d  on  the  whole  sad 
planet  of  man, 

The  kings  and  the  rich  and  the 
poor ; 

xi. 

“ And  he  sung  not  alone  of  an  old  sun 
set, 

But  a sun  coming  up  in  his  youth  \ 

Great  and  noble  — O yes  — but  yet  — 

For  man  is  a lover  of  Truth, 


EARLY  SPRING . 


635 


XII. 

: And  bound  to  follow,  wherever  she  go 

Stark-naked,  and  up  or  down, 

Hiro’  her  high  hill-passes  of  stainless 
snow, 

Or  the  foulest  sewer  of  the  town  — 

XIII. 

* Noble  and  great  — 0 ay  — but  then, 

Tho’  a prophet  should  have  his  due, 

^Vas  he  noblier-fashion’d  than  other 
men  1 

Shall  we  see  to  it,  I and  you  ? 

XIV. 

i For  since  he  would  sit  on  a Prophet’s 
seat, 

As  a lord  of  the  Human  soul, 

iVe  needs  must  scan  him  from  head 
to  feet 

Were  it  but  for  a wart  or  a mole  ? ” 

xv. 

His  wife  and  his  child  stood  by  him 
in  tears, 

But  she  — she  push’d  them  aside. 

“ Tho’  a name  may  last  for  a thou- 
sand years, 

Yet  a truth  is  a truth,”  she  cried. 

XVI. 

And  she  that  had  haunted  his  path- 
way still, 

Had  often  truckled  and  cower’d 

When  he  rose  in  his  wrath,  and  had 
yielded  her  will 

£ To  the  master,  as  overpower’d, 

XVII. 

^She  tumbled  his  helpless  corpse 
about. 

3 “ Small  blemish  upon  the  skin  ! 

But  I think  we  know  what  is  fair 
without 

Is  often  as  foul  within.” 

0 

XVIII. 

She  crouch’d,  she  tore  him  part  from 
part, 

And  out  of  his  body  she  drew 


The  red  “ Blood-eagle  ” 1 of  liver  and 
heart ; 

She  held  them  up  to  the  view ; 

XIX. 

She  gabbled,  as  she  groped  in  the 
dead, 

And  all  the  people  were  pleased; 

“ See,  what  a little  heart,”  she  said, 
“And  the  liver  is  half-diseased!” 

XX. 

She  tore  the  Prophet  after  death, 
And  the  people  paid  her  well. 
Lightnings  flicker’d  along  the  heath. 
One  shriek’d  “ The  fires  of  Hell ! ” 


EARLY  SPRING. 

i. 

Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  domes  the  red-plow’d  hills 
With  loving  blue ; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  throstles  too. 

n. 

Opens  a door  in  Heaven ; 

From  skies  of  glass 

A Jacob’s  ladder  falls 
On  greening  grass, 

And  o’er  the  mountain-walls 
Young  angels  pass. 

hi. 

Before  them  fleets  the  shower, 

And  burst  the  buds, 

And  shine  the  level  lands, 

And  flash  the  floods ; 

The  stars  are  from  their  hands 
Flung  thro’  the  woods, 

i Old  Viking  term  for  lunge,  liver,  etc., 
when  torn  by  the  conqueror  out  of  the  bodj 
of  the  conquered. 


636 


PREFATORY  POEM . 


IV. 

The  woods  with  living  airs 
How  softly  fann'd, 

Light  airs  from  where  the  deep, 
All  down  the  sand, 

Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 

Heard  by  the  land. 

v. 

O follow,  leaping  blood, 

The  season's  lure ! 

O heart,  look  down  and  up 
Serene,  secure, 

Warm  as  the  crocus  cup, 

Like  snowdrops,  pure ! 

VI. 

Past,  Future  glimpse  and  fade 
Thro'  some  slight  spell, 

A gleam  from  yonder  vale, 

Some  far  blue  fell, 

And  sympathies,  how  frail, 

In  sound  and  smell ! 

VII. 

Till  at  thy  chuckled  note, 

Thou  twinkling  bird, 

The  fairy  fancies  range, 

And,  lightly  stirr’d, 

Ring  little  bells  of  change 
From  word  to  word. 

VIII. 

For  now  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  thaws  the  cold,  and  fills 
The  flower  with  dew ; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  poets  too. 

PREFATORY  POEM  TO  MY 
BROTHER'S  SONNETS. 

Midnight , June  30,  1879. 


Midnight  — in  no  midsummer  tune 
The  breakers  lash  the  shores : 

The  cuckoo  of  a joyless  June 
Is  calling  out  of  doors : 


And  thou  hast  vanish’d  from  thine  owr 
To  that  which  looks  like  rest, 

True  brother,  only  to  be  known 
By  those  who  love  thee  best. 

ii. 

Midnight  — and  joyless  June  gone  by. 
And  from  the  deluged  park 
The  cuckoo  of  a worse  July 
Is  calling  thro'  the  dark  : 

But  thou  art  silent  underground, 
And  o’er  thee  streams  the  rain, 

True  poet,  surely  to  be  found 
When  Truth  is  found  again. 

i 

hi. 

And,  now  to  these  unsummer’d  skie 
The  summer  bird  is  still, 

Far  off  a phantom  cuckoo  cries 
From  out  a phantom  hill ; 

And  thro'  this  midnight  breaks  th 
sun 

Of  sixty  years  away, 

The  light  of  days  when  life  begun, 
The  days  that  seem  to-day, 

When  all  my  griefs  were  shared  witl 
thee, 

As  all  my  hopes  were  thine  — 

As  all  thou  wert  was  one  with  me. 
May  all  thou  art  be  mine ! 


“FRATER  AYE  ATQUE  YALE. 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  you 
Sirmione  row ! 

So  they  row'd,  and  there  we  landed  — 
“ O venusta  Sirmio  !" 

There  to  me  thro'  all  the  groves  o 
olive  in  the  summer  glow, 
There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  when 
the  purple  flowers  grow, 

Came  that  “ Ave  atque  Vale”  of  th< 
Poet's  hopeless  woe, 

Tenderest  of  Roman  poets  nineteen 
hundred  years  ago, 

“Frater  Ave  atque  Vale” — as  w< 
wander'd  to  and  fro 


HELEN'S  TOWER  — HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 


637 


Gazing  at  the  Lydian  laughter  of  the 
Garda  Lake  below 

Sweet  Catullus's  all-but-island,  olive- 
silvery  Sirmio ! 


HELEN’S  TOWER.1 

Helen’s  Tow  er,  here  I stand, 
Dominant  over  sea  and  land. 

Son’s  love  built  me,  and  I hold 
Mother’s  love  engrav’n  in  gold. 

Love  is  in  and  out  of  time, 

I am  mortal  stone  and  lime. 

Would  my  granite  girth  were  strong 
As  either  love,  to  last  as  long ! 

[ should  wear  my  crown  entire 
To  and  thro’  the  Doomsday  fire, 

And  be  found  of  angel  eyes 
In  earth’s  recurring  Paradise. 


fE  PITA  PH  ON  LORD  STRAT- 
FORD DE  REDCLIFFE. 

IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Thou  third  great  Canning,  stand 
among  our  best 

J And  noblest,  now  thy  long  day’s 
work  hath  ceased, 

Here  silent  in  our  Minster  of  the 
West 

Who  wert  the  voice  of  England  in 
the  East. 


EPITAPH  ON  GENERAL  GOR- 
DON. 

FOR  A CENOTAPH. 

Warrior  of  God,  man’s  friend,  not 
laid  below, 

But  somewhere  dead  far  in  the 
waste  Soudan, 

Thou  livest  in  all  hearts,  for  all 
men  know 

This  earth  has  borne  no  simpler, 
nobler  man. 

* 1 Written  at  the  request  of  my  friend. 

Lord  Dufferin. 


EPITAPH  ON  CAXTON. 
in  st.  Margaret’s,  Westminster. 

Fiat  Lux  (his  motto). 

Thy  prayer  was  “ Light  — more  Light 
— while  Time  shall  last!  ” 

Thou  sawest  a glory  growing  on  the 
night, 

But  not  the  shadows  which  that  light 
would  cast, 

Till  shadows  vanish  in  the  Light  of 
Light. 


TO  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 

O Patriot  Statesman,  be  thou  wise 
to  know 

The  limits  of  resistance,  and  the 
bounds 

Determining  concession ; still  be  bold 

Not  only  to  slight  praise  but  suffer 
scorn; 

And  be  thy  heart  a fortress  to  main- 
tain 

The  day  against  the  moment,  and  the 
year 

Against  the  day ; thy  voice,  a music 
heard 

Thro’  all  the  yells  and  counter-yells 
of  feud 

And  faction,  and  thy  will,  a power  to 
make 

This  ever-changing  world  of  circum- 
stance, 

In  changing,  chime  with  never-chang- 
ing Law. 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 

First  pledge  our  Queen  this  solemn 
night, 

Then  drink  to  England,  every  guest ; 
That  man’s  the  true  Cosmopolite 
Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 
May  freedom’s  oak  forever  live 
With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day ; 
That  man’s  the  best  Conservative 
Who  lops  the  moulder’d  branch 
away. 


638 


FREEDOM. 


Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  traitor's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 

To  all  the  loyal  hearts  who  long 
To  keep  our  English  Empire  whole! 
To  all  our  noble  sons,  the  strong 
New  England  of  the  Southern  Pole  ! 
To  England  under  Indian  skies, 

To  those  dark  millions  of  her  realm ! 
To  Canada  whom  we  love  and  prize, 
Whatever  statesman  hold  the  helm. 

Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  traitor’s  hope  confound ! 
To  this  great  name  of  England  drink, 
my  friends, 

And  all  her  glorious  empire,  round 
and  round. 

To  all  our  statesmen  so  they  be 
True  leaders  of  the  land’s  desire ! 
To  both  our  Houses,  may  they  see 
Beyond  the  borough  and  the  shire! 
We  sail’d  wherever  ship  could  sail, 
We  founded  many  a mighty  state; 
Pray  God  our  greatness  may  not  fail 
Through  craven  fears  of  being  great. 

Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  traitor’s  hope  confound ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 


FREEDOM. 

i. 

0 thou  so  fair  in  summers  gone, 
While  yet  thy  fresh  and  virgin  soul 
Inform’d  the  pillar’d  Parthenon, 

The  glittering  Capitol ; 

ii. 

So  fair  in  southern  sunshine  bathed, 
But  scarce  of  such  majestic  mien 
As  here  with  forehead  vapor-swathed 
In  meadows  ever  green ; 


III. 

For  thou  — when  Athens  reign’d  and 
Rome, 

Thy  glorious  eyes  were  dimm’d 
with  pain 

To  mark  in  many  a freeman’s  home 
The  slave,  the  scourge,  the  chain ; 

IV. 

0 follower  of  the  Vision,  still 
In  motion  to  the  distant  gleam, 
Howe’er  blind  force  and  brainless 
will 

May  jar  thy  golden  dream 

v. 

Of  Knowledge  fusing  class  with  class. 
Of  civic  Hate  no  more  to  be, 

Of  Love  to  leaven  all  the  mass, 

Till  every  Soul  be  free ; 

vi. 

Who  yet,  like  Nature,  wouldst  no 
mar 

By  changes  all  too  fierce  and  fast 
This  order  of  Her  Human  Star, 

This  heritage  of  the  past; 

VII. 

O scorner  of  the  party  cry 

That  wanders  from  the  public  good 
Thou  — when  the  nations  rear  on  higl 
Their  idol  smear’d  with  blood, 

VIII. 

And  when  they  roll  their  idol  down  — 
Of  saner  worship  sanely  proud ; 
Thou  loather  of  the  lawless  crown 
As  of  the  lawless  crowd; 

IX. 

How  long  thine  ever-growing  mind 
Hath  still’d  the  blast  and  strowi 
the  wave, 

Tho’  some  of  late  would  raise  a win* 
To  sing  thee  to  thy  grave, 


POETS  AND  THEIR  BIBLIOGRAPHIES . 


639 


x. 

Men  loud  against  all  forms  of 
power  — 

Unfurnish’d  brows,  tempestuous 
tongues  — 

Expecting  all  things  in  an  hour  — 
Brass  mouths  and  iron  lungs ! 


TO  H.R.H.  PRINCESS  BEATRICE. 

Two  Suns  of  Love  make  day  of  hu- 
man life, 

Which  else  with  all  its  pains,  and 
griefs,  and  deaths, 

Were  utter  darkness  — one,  the  Sun 
of  dawn 

That  brightens  thro’  the  Mother’s 
tender  eyes, 

And  warms  the  child’s  awakening 
world  — and  one 

The  later-rising  Sun  of  spousal  Love, 

Which  from  her  household  orbit 
draws  the  child 

To  move  in  other  spheres.  The 
Mother  weeps 

At  that  white  funeral  of  the  single  life, 

Her  maiden  daughter’s  marriage ; 
and  her  tears 

Are  half  of  pleasure,  half  of  pain  — 
the  child 

Is  happy  — ev’n  in  leaving  her ! but 
Thou, 

True  daughter,  whose  all-faithful, 
filial  eyes 

Have  seen  the  loneliness  of  earthly 
thrones, 

Wilt  neither  quit  the  widow’d  Crown, 
nor  let 

This  later  light  of  Love  have  risen  in 
vain, 

3ut  moving  thro'  the  Mother’s  home, 
between 


The  two  that  love  thee,  lead  a sum- 
mer life, 

Sway’d  by  each  Love,  and  swaying  to 
each  Love, 

Like  some  conjectured  planet  in  mid 
heaven 

Between  two  Suns,  and  drawing  down 
from  both 

The  light  and  genial  warmth  of 
double  day. 


POETS  AND  THEIR  BIBLIOG- 
RAPHIES. 

Old  poets  foster’d  under  friendlier 
skies. 

Old  Virgil  who  would  write  ten 
lines,  they  say, 

At  dawn,  and  lavish  all  the  golden 
day 

To  make  them  wealthier  in  his . 
readers’  eyes ; 

And  you,  old  popular  Horace,  you  the 
wise 

Adviser  of  the  nine-years-ponder’d 
lay, 

And  you,  that  wear  a wreath  of 
sweeter  bay, 

Catullus,  whose  dead  songster  never 
dies ; 

If,  glancing  downward  on  the  kindly 
sphere 

That  once  had  roll’d  you  round  and 
round  the  Sun, 

You  see  your  Art  still  shrined  in 
human  shelves, 

You  should  be  jubilant  that  you  flour- 
ish’d here 

Before  the  Love  of  Letters,  over- 
done, 

Had  swampt  the  sacred  poets  with 
themselves. 


640 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER . 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER. 

Late,  my  grandson ! half  the  morning  have  I paced  these  sandy  tract*, 
Watch’d  again  the  hollow  ridges  roaring  into  cataracts, 

Wander’d  back  to  living  boyhood  while  I heard  the  curlews  call, 

I myself  so  close  on  death,  and  death  itself  in  Locksley  Hall. 

So  — your  happy  suit  was  blasted  — she  the  faultless,  the  divine; 

And  you  liken  — boyish  babble  — this  boy-love  of  yours  with  mine. 

I myself  have  often  babbled  doubtless  of  a foolish  past ; 

Babble,  babble ; our  old  England  may  go  down  in  babble  at  last. 

“ Curse  him  ! ” curse  your  fellow-victim  ? call  him  dotard  in  your  rage  ? 
Eyes  that  lured  a doting  boyhood  well  might  fool  a dotard’s  age. 

Jilted  for  a wealthier!  wealthier1?  yet  perhaps  she  was  not  wise; 

I remember  how  you  kiss’d  the  miniature  with  those  sweet  eyes. 

In  the  hall  there  hangs  a painting  — Amy’s  arms  about  my  neck  — 
Happy  children  in  a sunbeam  sitting  on  the  ribs  of  wreck. 

In  my  life  there  was  a picture,  she  that  clasp’d  my  neck  had  flown; 

I was  left  within  the  shadow  sitting  on  the  wreck  alone. 

Yours  has  been  a slighter  ailment,  will  you  sicken  for  her  sake? 

You,  not  you!  your  modern  amourist  is  of  easier,  earthlier  make. 

Amy  loved  me,  Amy  fail’d  me,  Amy  was  a timid  child ; 

But  your  Judith  — but  your  worldling  — she  had  never  driven  me  wild. 

She  that  holds  the  diamond  necklace  dearer  than  the  golden  ring, 

She  that  finds  a winter  sunset  fairer  than  a morn  of  Spring. 

She  that  in  her  heart  is  brooding  on  his  briefer  lease  of  life, 

While  she  vows  “ till  death  shall  part  us,”  she  the  would-be-widow  wife 

She  the  worldling  born  of  worldlings  — father,  mother  — be  content, 
Ev’n  the  homely  farm  can  teach  us  there  is  something  in  descent. 

Yonder  in  that  chapel,  slowly  sinking  now  into  the  ground, 

Lies  the  warrior,  my  forefather,  with  his  feet  upon  the  hound. 

Cross’d!  for  once  he  sail’d  the  sea  to  crush  the  Moslem  in  hils  pride; 
Dead  the  warrior,  dead  his  glory,  dead  the  cause  in  which  he  died. 

Yet  how  often  I and  Amy  in  the  mouldering  aisle  have  stood. 

Gazing  for  one  pensive  moment  on  that  founder  of  our  blood. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER, 


641 


There  again  I stood  to-day,  and  where  of  old  we  knelt  in  prayer. 

Close  beneath  the  easement  crimson  with  the  shield  of  Locksley  — there, 

All  in  white  Italian  marble,  looking  still  as  if  she  smiled, 

Lies  my  Amy  dead  in  child-birth,  dead  the  mother,  dead  the  child. 

Dead — and  sixty  years  ago,  and  dead  her  aged  husband  now, 

I this  old  white-headed  dreamer  stoopt  and  kiss’d, her  marble  brow. 

Gone  the  fires  of  youth,  the  follies,  furies,  curses,  passionate  tears, 

Gone  like  fires  and  floods  and  earthquakes  of  the  planet’s  dawning  years. 

Fires  that  shook  me  once,  but  now  to  silent  ashes  fall’n  away. 

Cold  upon  the  dead  volcano  sleeps  the  gleam  of  dying  day. 

Gone  the  tyrant  of  my  youth,  and  mute  below  the  chancel  stones, 

All  his  virtues  — I forgive  them  — black  in  white  above  his  bones. 

Gone  the  comrades  of  my  bivouac,  some  in  fight  against  the  foe, 

Some  thro’  age  and  slow  diseases,  gone  as  all  on  earth  will  go. 

Gone  with  whom  for  forty  years  my  life  in  golden  sequence  ran, 

She  with  all  the  charm  of  woman,  she  with  all  the  breadth  of  man. 

Strong  in  will  and  rich  in  wisdom,  Edith,  loyal,  lowly,  sweet, 

Feminine  to  her  inmost  heart,  and  feminine  to  her  tender  feet, 

Very  woman  of  very*  woman,  nurse  of  ailing  body  and  mind, 

She  that  link’d  again  the  broken  chain  that  bound  me  to  m^  kind. 

Here  to-day  was  Amy  with  me,  while  I wander’d  down  the  coast. 

Near  us  Edith’s  holy  shadow,  smiling  at  the  slighter  ghost. 

Gone  our  sailor  son  thy  father,  Leonard  early  lost  at  sea ; 

Thou  alone,  my  boy,  of  Amy’s  kin  and  mine  art  left  to  me. 

Gone  thy  tender-natured  mother,  wearying  to  be  left  alone, 

Pining  for  the  stronger  heart  that  once  had  beat  beside  her  own. 

Truth,  for  Truth  is  Truth,  he  worshipt,  being  true  as  he  was  bravt; 
Hood,  for  Good  is  Good,  he  follow’d,  yet  he  look’d  beyond  the  grave, 

W'iser  there  than  you,  that  crowning  barren  Death  as  lord  of  all, 

Deem  this  over-tragic  drama’s  closing  curtain  is  the  pall ! 

Beautiful  was  death  in  him  who  saw  the  death  but  kept  the  deck, 

Saving  women  and  their  babes,  and  sinking  with  the  sinking  wreck, 

Gone  forever!  Ever?  no  — for  since  our  dying  race  began, 

Ever,  ever,  and  forever  was  the  leading  light  of  man. 


642 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEAES  AFTER. 


Those  that  in  barbarian  burials  kill'd  the  slave,  and  slew  the  wife, 

Felt  within  themselves  the  sacred  passion  of  the  second  life. 

Indian  warriors  dream  of  ampler  hunting  grounds  beyond  the  night ; 

Ev'n  the  black  Australian  dying  hopes  he  shall  return,  a white. 

Truth  for  truth,  and  good  for  good ! The  Good,  the  True,  the  Pure-  the 
Just ; 

Take  the  charm  “ Forever  " from  them,  and  they  crumble  into  dust. 

Gone  the  cry  of  “ Forward,  Forward,"  lost  within  a growing  gloom ; 

Lost,  or  only  heard  in  silence  from  the  silence  of  a tomb. 

Half  the  marvels  of  my  morning,  triumphs  over  time  and  space, 

Staled  by  frequence,  shrunk  by  usage  into  commonest  commonplace ! 

“ Forward"  rang  the  voices  then,  and  of  the  many  mine  was  one. 

Let  us  hush  this  cry  of  “Forward  " till  ten  thousand  years  have  gone. 

Far  among  the  vanish'd  races,  old  Assyrian  kings  would  flay 
Captives  whom  they  caught  in  battle  — iron-hearted  victors  they. 

Ages  after,  while  in  Asia,  he  that  led  the  wild  Moguls, 

Timur  built  his  ghastly  tower  of  eighty  thousand  human  skulls, 

Then,  and  here  in  Edward's  time,  an  age  of  noblest  English  names, 
Christian  corfquerors  took  and  flung  the  conquer’d  Christian  into  flames- 

Love  your  enemy,  bless  your  haters,  said  the  Greatest  of  the  great ; 
Christian  love  among  the  Churches  look'd  the  twin  of  heathen  hate. 

From  the  golden  alms  of  Blessing  man  had  coin’d  himself  a curse : 

Rome  of  Caesar,  Rome  of  Peter,  which  was  crueller  ? which  was  worse  ? 

France  had  shown  a light  to  all  men,  preach’d  a Gospel,  all  men's  good; 
Celtic  Demos  rose  a Demon,  shriek’d  and  slaked  the  light  with  blood. 

Hope  was  ever  on  her  mountain,  watching  till  the  day  begun, 

Crown’d  with  sunlight  — over  darkness  — from  the  still  unrisen  sun. 

Have  we  grown  at  last  beyond  the  passions  of  the  primal  clan  ? 

“Kill  your  enemy,  for  you  hate  him,"  still,  “your  enemy"  was  a man. 

Have  we  sunk  below  them  ? peasants  maim  the  helpless  horse,  and  drive 
Innocent  cattle  under  thatch,  and  burn  the  kindlier  brutes  alive. 

Brutes,  the  brutes  are  not  your  wrongers  — burnt  at  midnight,  found  at 
morn, 

Twisted  hard  in  mortal  agony  with  their  offspring,  born-unborn, 

Clinging  to  the  silent  mother!  Are  we  devils  ? are  we  men? 

Sweet  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  would  that  he  were  here  again, 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER . 


643 


He  that  in  his  Catholic  wholeness  used  to  call  the  very  flowers 

Sisters,  brothers  — and  the  beasts  — whose  pains  are  hardly  less  than  ours! 

Chaos,  Cosmos!  Cosmos,  Chaos!  who  can  tell  how  all  will  end! 

Read  the  wide  world’s  annals,  you,  and  take  their  wisdom  for  your  friend. 

Hope  the  best,  but  hold  the  Present  fatal  daughter  of  the  Past, 

Shape  your  heart  to  front  the  hour,  but  dream  not  that  the  hour  will  last. 

Ay,  if  dynamite  and  revolver  leave  you  courage  to  be  wise : 

When  was  age  so  cramm’d  with  menace  % madness  ? written,  spoken  lies  ? 

Envy  wears  the  mask  of  Love,  and,  laughing  sober  fact  to  scorn, 

Cries  to  Weakest  as  to  Strongest,  “ Ye  are  equals,  equal-born.” 

Equal-born  ? O yes,  if  yonder  hill  be  level  with  the  flat. 

Charm  us,  Orator,  till  the  Lion  look  no  larger  than  the  Cat. 

Till  the  Cat  thro’  that  mirage  of  overheated  language  loom 
Larger  than  the  Lion,  — Demos  end  in  working  its  own  doom. 

Russia  bursts  our  Indian  barrier,  shall  we  fight  her  ? shall  we  yield  ? 
Pause,  before  you  sound  the  trumpet,  hear  the  voices  from  the  field. 

Those  three  hundred  millions  under  one  Imperial  sceptre  now, 

Shall  we  hold  them  ? shall  we  loose  them  1 take  the  suffrage  of  the  plow. 

Nay,  but  these  would  feel  and  follow  Truth  if  only  you  and  you, 

Rivals  of  realm-ruining  party,  when  you  speak  were  wholly  true. 

Plowmen,  Shepherds,  have  I found,  and  more  than  once,  and  still  could  find, 
Sons  of  God,  and  kings  of  men  in  utter  nobleness  of  mind, 

Truthful,  trustful,  looking  upward  to  the  practised  hustings-liar ; 

So  the  Higher  wields  the  Lower,  while  the  Lower  is  the  Higher. 

Here  and  there  a cotter’s  babe  is  royal-born  by  right  divine ; 

Here  and  there  my  lord  is  lower  than  his  oxen  or  his  swine. 

Chaos,  Cosmos!  Cosmos,  Chaos  ! once  again  the  sickening  game  ; 
Freedom,  free  to  slay  herself,  and  dying  while  they  shout  her  name. 

Step  by  step  we  gain’d  a freedom  known  to  Europe,  known  to  all ; 

Step  by  step  we  rose  to  greatness,  — thro’  the  tonguesters  we  may  fall. 

You  that  woo  the  Voices  — tell  them  “ old  experience  is  a fool,” 

Teach  your  flatter’d  kings  that  only  those  who  cannot  read  can  rule. 

Pluck  the  mighty  from  their  seat,  but  set  no  meek  ones  in  their  place  s 
Pillory  Wisdom  in  your  markets,  pelt  your  offal  at  her  face. 


644 


LOCKS  LEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER. 


Tumble  Nature  heel  o’er  head,  and,  yelling  with  the  yelling  street, 

Set  the  feet  above  the  brain  and  swear  the  brain  is  in  the  feet. 

Bring  the  old  dark  ages  back  without  the  faith,  without  the  hope, 

Break  the  State,  the  Church,  the  Throne,  and  roll  their  ruins  down  the  slope. 

Authors  — atheist,  essayist,  novelist,  realist,  rhymester,  play  your  part, 
Paint  the  mortal  shame  of  nature  with  the  living  hues  of  Art." 

Hip  your  brothers’  vices  open,  strip  your  own  foul  passions  bare; 

Down  with  Reticence,  down  with  Reverence  — forward  — naked  — let  them 
stare. 

Feed  the  budding  rose  of  boyhood  with  the  drainage  of  your  sewer; 

Send  the  drain  into  the  fountain,  lest  the  stream  should  issue  pure. 

Set  the  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in  the  troughs  of  Zolaism,  — 

Forward,  forward,  ay  and  backward,  downward  too  into  the  abysm. 

Do  your  best  to  charm  the  worst,  to  lower  the  rising  race  of  men ; 

Have  we  risen  from  out  the  beast,  then  back  into  the  beast  again  ? 

Only  “dust  to  dust”  for  me  that  sicken  at  your  lawless  din, 

Dust  in  wholesome  old-world  dust  before  the  newer  world  begin. 

Heated  am  I?  you  — you  wonder  — well,  it  scarce  becomes  mine  age  — 
Patience ! let  the  dying  actor  mouth  his  last  upon  the  stage. 

Cries  of  unprogressive  dotage  ere  the  dotard  fall  asleep  ? 

Noises  of  a current  narrowing,  not  the  music  of  a deep  ? 

Ay,  for  doubtless  I am  old,  and  think  gray  thoughts,  for  I am  gray : 

After  all  tlm  stormy  changes  shall  we  find  a changeless  May  ? 

After  madness,  after  massacre,  Jacobinism  and  Jacquerie, 

Some  diviner  force  to  guide  us  thro’  the  days  I shall  not  see  ? 

When  the  schemes  and  all  the  systems,  Kingdoms  and  Republics  fall, 
Something  kindlier,  higher,  holier — all  for  each  and  each  for  all  ? 

All  the  full-brain,  half-brain  races,  led  by  Justice,  Love,  and  Truth ; 

All  the  millions  one  at  length,  with  all  the  visions  of  my  youth  ? 

All  diseases  quench’d  by  Science,  no  man  halt,  or  deaf  or  blind; 

Stronger  ever  born  of  weaker,  lustier  body,  larger  mind  ? 

Earth  at  last  a warless  world,  a single  race,  a single  tongue, 

I have  seen  her  far  away  — for  is  not  Earth  as  yet  so  young  ? — 

Every  tiger  madness  muzzled,  every  serpent  passion  kill’d. 

Every  grim  ravine  a garden,  every  blazing  desert  till’d. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER. 


645 


Robed  in  universal  harvest  up  to  either  pole  she  smiles, 

Universal  ocean  softly  washing  all  her  warless  Isles. 

Warless  ? when  her  tens  are  thousands,  and  her  thousands  millions,  then  — 
All  her  harvest  all  too  narrow  — who  can  fancy  warless  men  ? 

Warless  ? war  will  die  out  late  then.  Will  it  ever  ? late  or  soon  ? 

Can  it,  till  this  outworn  earth  be  dead  as  yon  dead  world  the  moon  ? 

Dead  the  new  astronomy  calls  her.  . . . On  this  day  and  at  this  hour, 

In  this  gap  between  the  sandhills,  whence  you  see  the  Locksley  tower. 

Here  we  met,  our  latest  meeting  — Amy  — sixty  years  ago  — 

She  and  I — the  moon  was  falling  greenish  thro’  a rosy  glow, 

Just  above  the  gateway  tower,  and  even  where  you  see  her  now  — 

Here  we  stood  and  claspt  each  other,  swore  the  seeming-deathless  vow.  . • . 

Dead,  but  how  her  living  glory  lights  the  hall,  the  dune,  the  grass ! 

Yet  the  moonlight  is  the  sunlight,  and  the  sun  himself  will  pass. 

Venus  near  her ! smiling  downward  at  this  earthlier  earth  of  ours. 

Closer  on  the  Sun,  perhaps  a world  of  never  fading  flowers. 

Eesper,  whom  the  poet  call'd  the  Bringer  home  of  all  good  things. 

All  good  things  may  move  in  Hesper,  perfect  peoples,  perfect  kings. 

Hesper  — Venus  — were  we  native  to  that  splendor  or  in  Mars, 

We  should  see  the  Globe  we  groan  in,  fairest  of  their  evening  stars. 

Could  we  dream  of  wars  and  carnage,  craft  and  madness,  lust  and  spite, 
Roaring  London,  raving  Paris,  in  that  point  of  peaceful  light  ? 

Might  we  not  in  glancing  heavenward  on  a star  so  silver-fair, 

Yearn,  and  clasp  the  hands  and  murmur,  “Would  to  God  that  we  were 
there  ” ? 

Forward,  backward,  backward,  forward,  in  the  immeasurable  sea, 

Sway’d  by  vaster  ebbs  and  flows  than  can  be  known  to  you  or  me. 

All  the  suns  — are  these  but  symbols  of  innumerable  man, 

Man  or  Mind  that  sees  a shadow  of  the  planner  or  the  plan  % 

Is  there  evil  but  on  earth  ? or  pain  in  every  peopled  sphere  ? 

Well  be  grateful  for  the  sounding  watchword,  “Evolution  ” here. 

Evolution  ever  climbing  after  some  ideal  good, 

And  Reversion  ever  dragging  Evolution  in  the  mud. 

What  are  men  that  He  should  heed  us  ? cried  the  king  of  sacred  song; 
Insects  of  an  hour,  that  hourly  work  their  brother  insect  wrong, 


646 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER. 


While  the  silent  Heavens  roll,  and  Suns  along  their  fiery  way, 

All  their  planets  whirling  round  them,  flash  a million  miles  a day. 

Many  an  Mon  moulded  earth  before  her  highest,  man,  was  born, 

Many  an  ^Eon  too  may  pass  when  earth  is  manless  and  forlorn. 

Earth  so  huge,  and  yet  so  bounded  — pools  of  salt,  and  plots  of  land  — 
Jhallow  skin  of  green  and  azure  — chains  of  mountain,  grains  of  sand! 

Only  That  which  made  us,  meant  us  to  be  mightier  by  and  by, 

Set  the  sphere  of  all  the  boundless  Heavens  within  the  human  eye, 

Sent  the  shadow  of  Himself,  the  boundless,  thro'  the  human  soul ; 

Boundless  inward,  in  the  atom,  boundless  outward,  in  the  Whole. 

******** 

Here  is  Locksley  Hall,  my  grandson,  here  the  lion-guarded  gate. 

Not  to-night  in  Locksley  Hall  — to-morrow  — you,  you  come  so  late. 

Wreck’d  — your  train  — or  all  but  wreck’d  ? a shatter’d  wheel  ? a vicious 
boy ! 

Good,  this  forward,  you  that  preach  it,  is  it  well  to  wish  you  joy  ? 

Is  it  well  that  while  we  range  with  Science,  glorying  in  the  Time, 

City  children  soak  and  blacken  soul  and  sense  in  city  slime  ? 

There  among  the  glooming  alleys  Progress  halts  on  palsied  feet, 

Crime  and  hunger  cast  our  maidens  by  the  thousand  on  the  street. 

There  the  Master  scrimps  his  haggard  sempstress  of  her  daily  bread, 

There  a single  sordid  attic  holds  the  living  and  the  dead. 

There  the  smouldering  fire  of  fever  creeps  across  the  rotted  floor, 

And  the  crowded  couch  of  incest  in  the  warrens  of  the  poor. 

Nay,  your  pardon,  cry  your  “ forward,”  yours  are  hope  and  youth,  but  I — 
Eighty  winters  leave  the  dog  too  lame  to  follow  with  the  cry, 

Lame  and  old,  and  past  his  time,  and  passing  now  into  the  night;  3 
Yet  I would  the  rising  race  were  half  as  eager  for  the  light. 

Light  the  fading  gleam  of  Even  ? light  the  glimmer  of  the  dawn  ? 

Aged  eyes  may  take  the  growing  glimmer  for  the  gleam  withdrawn. 

Ear  away  beyond  her  myriad  coming  changes  earth  will  be 
Something  other  than  the  wildest  modern  guess  of  you  and  me. 

Earth  may  reach  her  earthly-worst,  or  if  she  gain  her  earthly-best, 

Would  she  find  her  human  offspring  this  ideal  man  at  rest  ? 

Forward  then,  but  still  remember  how  the  course  of  Time  will  swerve, 
Crook  and  turn  upon  itself  in  many  a backward  streaming  curve. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER. 


647 


Not  the  Hall  to-night,  my  grandson ! Death  and  Silence  hold  their  own. 
Leave  the  Master  in  the  first  dark  hour  of  his  last  sleep  alone. 

Worthier  soul  was  he  than  I am,  sound  and  honest,  rustic  Squire, 

Kindly  landlord,  boon  companion  — youthful  jealousy  is  a liar. 

Cast  the  poison  from  your  bosom,  oust  the  madness  from  your  brain. 

Let  the  trampled  serpent  show  you  that  you  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

Youthful ! youth  and  age  are  scholars  yet  but  in  the  lower  school, 

Nor  is  he  the  wisest  man  who  never  proved  himself  a fool. 

Yonder  lies  our  young  sea-village  — Art  and  Grace  are  less  and  less : 
Science  grows  and  Beauty  dwindles — roofs  of  slated  hideousness! 

There  is  one  old  Hostel  left  us  where  they  swing  the  Locksley  shield, 

Till  the  peasant  cow  shall  butt  the  “ Lion  passant  ” from  his  field. 

Poor  old  Heraldry,  poor  old  History,  poor  old  Poetry,  passing  hence, 

In  the  common  deluge  drowning  old  political  common-sense ! 

Poor  old  voice  of  eighty  crying  after  voices  that  have  fled  ! 

All  I loved  are  vanish’d  voices,  all  my  steps  are  on  the  dead. 

All  the  world  is  ghost  to  me,  and  as  the  phantom  disappears, 

Forward  far  and  far  from  here  is  all  the  hope  of  eighty  years. 

******** 

In  this  Hostel  — I remember  — I repent  it  o’er  his  grave  — 

Ivike  a clown  — by  chance  he  met  me  — I refused  the  hand  he  gave. 

From  that  casement  where  the  trailer  mantles  all  the  mouldering  bricks  — 
I was  then  in  early  boyhood,  Edith  but  a child  of  six  — - 

While  I shelter’d  in  this  archway  from  a day  of  driving  showers  — 

Peept  the  winsome  face  of  Edith  like  a flower  among  the  flowers. 

Here  to-night!  the  Hall  to-morrow,  when  they  toll  the  Chapel  bell! 

Shall  I hear  in  one  dark  room  a wailing,  “ I have  loved  thee  well.” 

Then  a peal  that  shakes  the  portal  — one  has  come  to  claim  his  bride, 

Her  that  shrank,  and  put  me  from  her,  shriek’d,  and  started  from  my  side  - 

Silent  echoes ! you,  my  Leonard,  use  and  not  abuse  your  day, 

Move  among  your  people,  know  them,  follow  him  who  led  the  way, 

Strove  for  sixty  widow’d  years  to  help  his  homelier  brother  men, 

Served  the  poor,  and  built  the  cottage,  raised  the  school,  and  drain’d  the  fen 

Hears  he  now  the  Voice  that  wrong’d  him  ? who  shall  swear  it  cannot  be  ? 
Earth  would  never  touch  her  worst,  were  one  in  fifty  such  as  he. 


648 


THE  FLEET \ 


®re  she  gain  her  Heavenly-best,  a God  must  mingle  with  the  game : 
Nay,  there  may  be  those  about  us  whom  we  neither  see  nor  name, 

Felt  within  us  as  ourselves,  the  Powers  of  Good,  the  Powers  of  111, 
Strowing  balm,  or  shedding  poison  in  the  fountains  of  the  Will. 

Follow  you  the  Star  that  lights  a desert  pathway,  yours  or  mine. 
Forward,  till  you  see  the  highest  Human  Nature  is  divine. 

Follow  Light,  and  do  the  Right  — for  man  can  half-control  bis  doom  — 
Till  you  find  the  deathless  Angel  seated  in  the  vacant  tomb. 

Forward,  let  the  stormy  moment  fly  and  mingle  with  the  Past. 

I that  loathed,  have  come  to  love  him.  Love  will  conquer  at  the  last. 

Gone  at  eighty,  mine  own  age,  and  I and  you  will  bear  the  pall ; 

Then  I leave  thee  Lord  and  Master,  latest  Lord  of  Locksley  Hall. 


THE  FLEET.1 

i. 

You,  you,  if  you  shall  fail  to  under- 
stand 

What  England  is,  and  what  her  all- 
in-all, 

On  you  will  come  the  curse  of  all  the 
land, 

Should  this  old  England  fall 
Which  Nelson  left  so  great. 

1 The  speaker  said  that  “ he  should  like  to 
be  assured  that  other  outlying  portions  of 
the  Empire,  the  Crown  colonies,  and  impor- 
tant coaling  stations  were  being  as  promptly 
and  as  thoroughly  fortified  as  the  various 
capitals  of  the  self-governing  colonies.  He 
was  credibly  informed  this  was  not  so.  It 
was  impossible,  also,  not  to  feel  some  degree 
of  anxiety  about  the  efficacy  of  present  pro- 
vision to  defend  and  protect,  by  means  of 
swift,  well-armed  cruisers,  the  immense  mer- 
cantile fleet  of  the  Empire.  A third  source 
of  anxiety,  so  far  as  the  colonies  were  con- 
cerned, was  the  apparently  insufficient  pro- 
vision for  the  rapid  manufacture  of  arma- 
ments and  their  prompt  despatch  when  or- 
dered to  their  colonial  destination.  Hence 
the  necessity  for  manufacturing  appliances 
equal  to  the  requirements,  not  of  Grreat  Brit- 
ain alone,  but  of  the  whole  Empire.  But 
the  keystone  of  the  whole  was  the  necessity 
for  an  overwhelmingly  powerful  fleet  and 
efficient  defence  for  all  necessary  coaling  sta- 


ll. 

His  isle,  the  mightiest  Ocean-powei 
on  earth, 

Our  own  fair  isle,  the  lord  of  every 
sea  — 

Her  fuller  franchise  — what  would 
that  be  worth  — 

Her  ancient  fame  of  Free  — 

Were  she  ...  a fallen  state  ? 

tions.  This  was  as  essential  for  the  colonies 
as  for  Great  Britain.  It  was  the  one  condi- 
tion for  the  continuance  of  the  Empire.  All 
that  Continental  Powers  did  with  respect  to 
armies  England  should  effect  with  her  navy. 
It  was  essentially  a defensive  force,  and 
could  be  moved  rapidly  from  point  to  point, 
but  it  should  be  equal  to  all  that  was  expected 
from  it.  It  was  to  strengthen  the  fleet  that 
colonists  would  first  readily  tax  themselves, 
because  they  realized  how  essential  a power- 
ful fleet  was  to  the  safety,  not  only  of  that 
extensive  commerce  sailing  in  every  sea,  but 
ultimately  to  the  security  of  the  distant  por- 
tions of  the  Empire.  Who  could  estimate 
the  loss  involved  in  even  a brief  period  of 
disaster  to  the  Imperial  Navy.  Any  amount 
of  money  timely  expended  in  preparation 
would  be  quite  insignificant  when  compared 
with  the  possible  calamity  he  had  referred 
to.”  — Extract  from  Sir  Graham  Kerry':' 
Speech  at  the  Colonial  Institute , 9th  Nov- 
ember, 1886. 


TO  THE  MARQUIS  OF  DUFFER  IN  AND  A VA. 


649 


hi. 

Her  dauntless  army  scatter’d,  and  so 
small, 

Her  island-myriads  fed  from  alien 
lands  — 

The  fleet  of  England  is  her  all-in-all ; 

Her  fleet  is  in  your  hands, 

And  in  her  fleet  her  Fate. 

IV. 

you,  you,  that  have  the  ordering  of 
her  fleet, 

If  you  should  only  compass  her 
disgrace, 

When  all  men  starve,  the  wild  mob's 
million  feet 

Will  kick  you  from  your  place, 
But  then  too  late,  too  late. 


OPENING  OF  THE  INDIAN  AND 
COLONIAL  EXHIBITION  BY 
THE  QUEEN. 

i 

i. 

Welcome,  welcome  with  one  voice  ! 
In  your  welfare  we  rejoice, 

Sons  and  brothers  that  have  sent, 
From  isle  and  cape  and  continent, 
Produce  of  your  field  and  flood, 
s Mount  and  mine,  and  primal  wood; 
Works  of  subtle  brain  and  hand, 

And  splendors  of  the  morning  land, 
Gifts  from  every  British  zone ; 
Britons,  hold  your  own! 

II. 

May  we  find,  as  ages  run, 

The  mother  featured  in  the  son ; 

And  may  yours  forever  be 
That  old  strength  and  constancy 
jj  Which  has  made  your  fathers  great 
In  our  ancient  island  State, 

And  wherever  her  flag  fly, 

Glorying  between  sea  and  sky, 

Makes  the  might  of  Britain  known; 
Britons,  hold  your  Own  ! 


hi. 

Britain  fought  her  sons  of  yore  — 
Britain  failed ; and  never  more, 
Careless  of  our  growing  kin, 

Shall  we  sin  our  fathers’  sin, 

Men  that  in  a narrower  day  — 
Unprophetic  rulers  they  — 

Drove  from  out  the  mother’s  nest 
That  young  eagle  of  the  West 
To  forage  for  herself  alone ; 

Britons,  hold  your  own! 

IV. 

Sharers  of  our  glorious  past, 
Brothers,  must  we  part  at  last  ? 

Shall  we  not  thro’  good  and  ill 
Cleave  to  one  another  still  ? 

Britain’s  myriad  voices  call, 

“ Sons,  be  wedded  each  and  all, 

Into  one  imperial  whole, 

One  with  Britain,  heart  and  soul ! 
One  life,  one  flag,  one  fleet,  one 
Throne  ! ” 

Britons,  hold  your  own ! 


TO  THE  MARQUIS  OF  DUF- 
FERIN  AND  AVA. 

i. 

At  times  our  Britain  cannot  rest. 

At  times  her  steps  are  swift  and 
rash ; 

She  moving,  at  her  girdle  clash 
The  golden  keys  of  East  and  West. 

ii. 

Not  swift  or  rash,  when  late  she  lent 
The  sceptres  of  her  West,  her  East 
To  one,  that  ruling  has  increased 
Her  greatness  and  her  self-content. 

hi. 

Your  rule  has  made  the  people  love 
Their  ruler.  Your  viceregal  days 
Have  added  fulness  to  the  phrase 
Of  “ Gauntlet  in  the  velvet  glove.” 


550 


ON  THE  JUBILEE  OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA. 


IV. 

But  since  your  name  will  grow  with 
Time, 

Not  all,  as  honoring  your  fair  fame 

Of  Statesman,  have  I made  the 
name 

A golden  portal  to  my  rhyme : 

v. 

But  more,  that  you  and  yours  may 
know 

From  me  and  mine,  how  dear  a debt 

We  owed  you,  and  are  owing  yet 

To  you  and  yours,  and  still  would  owe. 

VI. 

For  he — your  India  was  his  Fate, 

And  drew  him  over  sea  to  you  — 

He  fain  had  ranged  her  thro’  and 
thro’, 

To  serve  her  myriads  and  the  State,— 

VII 

A soul  that,  watph’d  from  earliest 
youth, 

And  on  thro’  many  a brightening 
year, 

Had  never  swerved  for  craft  or  fear, 

By  one  side-path,  from  simple  truth  ; 

VIII.  # 

Who  might  have  chased  and  claspt 
Renown 

And  caught  her  chaplet  here  — and 
there 

In  haunts  of  jungle-poison’d  air 

The  flame  of  life  went  wavering  down  ; 

IX. 

But  ere  he  left  your  fatal  shore, 

And  lay  on  that  funereal  boat, 

Dying,  “ Unspeakable  ” he  wrote 

“ Their  kindness,”  and  he  wrote  no 
more ; 

x. 

And  sacred  is  the  latest  word ; 

And  now  The  was,  the  Might-have- 
been, 


And  those  lone  rites  I have  not  seen 
And  one  drear  sound  I have  not  heard, 

XI. 

Are  dreams  that  scarce  will  let  me  be, 
Not  there  to  bid  my  boy  farewell, 
When  That  within  the  coffin  fell, 
Fell  and  flash’d  into  the  Red  Sea, 

XII. 

Beneath  a hard  Arabian  moon 

And  alien  stars.  To  question,  whj 
The  sons  before  the  fathers  die, 
Not  mine  ! and  I may  meet  him  soon 

XIII. 

But  while  my  life’s  late  eve  endures 
Nor  settles  into  hueless  gray, 

My  memories  of  his  briefer  day 
Will  mix  with  love  for  you  and  yours 


ON  THE  JUBILEE  OF  QUEEN 
VICTORIA. 

I. 

Fifty  times  the  rose  has  flower’d 
and  faded, 

Fifty  times  the  golden  harvest  fallen 
Since  our  Queen  assumed  the  globe, 
the  sceptre. 

ii. 

She  beloved  for  a kindliness 
Rare  in  Fable  or  History, 

Queen  and  Empress  of  India, 
Crown’d  so  long  with  a diadem 
Never  worn  by  a worthier, 

Now  with  prosperous  auguries 
Comes  at  last  to  the  bounteous 
Crowning  year  of  her  Jubilee. 

hi. 

Nothing  of  the  lawless,  of  the  Despot 
Nothing  of  the  vulgar,  or  vainglori 
ous, 

All  is  gracious,  gentle,  great  an< 
Queenly. 


. TO  PROFESSOR  JEBB . 


65 


IV. 

ifou  then  joyfully,  all  of  you, 

Set  the  mountain  aflame  to-night, 
Shoot  your  stars  to  the  firmament, 
Deck  your  houses,  illuminate 
AH  your  towns  for  a festival, 

\nd  in  each  let  a multiude 
Loyal,  each,  to  the  heart  of  it, 

)ne  full  voice  of  allegiance, 
lail  the  fair  Ceremonial 
)f  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 

v. 

Jueen,  as  true  to  womanhood  as 
Queenhood, 

Glorying  in  the  glories  of  her  people, 
Sorrowing  with  the  sorrows  of  the 
lowest ! 

VI. 

ifou,  that  wanton  in  affluence, 

Spare  not  now  to  be  bountiful, 

Dali  your  poor  to  regale  with  you, 

\11  the  lowly,  the  destitute, 

Jake  their  neighborhood  health- 
fuller, 

Jive  your  gold  to  the  Hospital, 

Let  the  weary  be  comforted, 

Let  the  needy  be  banqueted, 

Let  the  maim’d  in  his  heart  rejoice 
It  this  glad  Ceremonial, 

And  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 

VII. 

rlenry’s  fifty  years  are  all  in  shadow, 
Dray  with  distance  Edward’s  fifty 
summers, 

Sv’n  her  Grandsire's  fifty  half  for- 
gotten. 

VIII. 

fou,  the  Patriot  Architect, 
fou  that  shape  for  Eternity, 
iaise  a stately  memorial, 

Jake  it  regally  gorgeous, 

Lome  Imperial  Institute, 
tich  in  symbol,  in  ornament, 

Vhich  may  speak  to  the  centuries, 
All  the  centuries  after  us, 


Of  this  great  Ceremonial, 

And  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 

IX. 

Fifty  years  of  ever-broadening  Com 
merce ! 

Fifty  years  of  ever-brightening  Sci 
ence ! 

Fifty  years  of  ever-widening  Empire 

x. 

You,  the  Mighty,  the  Fortunate, 

You,  the  Lord-territorial, 

You,  the  Lord-manufacturer, 

You,  the  hardy,  laborious, 

Patient  children  of  Albion, 

You,  Canadian,  Indian, 

Australasian,  African, 

All  your  hearts  be  in  harmony, 

All  your  voices  in  unison, 

Singing  “ Hail  to  the  glorious 
Golden  year  of  her  Jubilee  ! ” 

XI. 

Are  there  thunders  moaning  m the 
distance  ? 

Are  there  spectres  moving  in  the 
darkness  ? 

Trust  the  Hand  of  Light  will  lead 
her  people, 

Till  the  thunders  pass,  the  spectres 
vanish, 

And  the  Light  is  the  Victor,  and 
the  darkness 

Dawns  into  the  Jubilee  of  the  Age? 


TO  PROFESSOR  JEBB 

WITH  THE  FOLLOWING  POE 

Fair  things  are  slow  to  fade  awaw 
Bear  witness  you,  that  yesterday  A 
From  out  the  Ghost  of  Pindar 
you 

Roll'd  an  Olympian  ; and  they  sa1 
1 In  Bologna. 

s They  say,  for  the  fact  ie  doubtful. 


652 


DEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE. 


That  here  the  torpid  mummy  wheat  I 
Of  Egypt  bore  a grain  as  sweet 

As  that  which  gilds  the  glebe  of 
England, 

Sunn’d  with  a summer  of  milder  heat. 

So  may  this  legend  for  awhile 
If  greeted  by  your  classic  smile, 

Tho’  dead  in  its  Trinacrian  Enna, 
Blossom  again  on  a colder  isle. 


DEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE. 
(in  enna.) 

Faint  as  a climate-changing  bird  that 
flies 

All  night  across  the  darkness,  and  at 
dawn 

Falls  on  the  threshold  of  her  native 
land, 

And  can  no  more,  thou  earnest,  O my 
child, 

Led  upward  by  the  God  of  ghosts 
and  dreams, 

Who  laid  thee  at  Eleusis,  dazed  and 
dumb 

With  passing  thro’  at  once  from  state 
to  state, 

Until  I brought  thee  hither,  that  the 
day, 

When  here  thy  hands  let  fall  the 
gather’d  flower, 

Might  break  thro’  clouded  memories 
once  again 

On  thy  lost  self.  A sudden  nightin- 
gale 

Saw  thee,  and  flash’d  into  a frolic  of 
song 

And  welcome ; and  a gleam  as  of  the 
moon, 

When  first  she  peers  along  the  tremu- 
lous deep, 

Fled  wavering  o’er  thy  face,  and 
chased  away 

That  shadow  of  a likeness  to  the  king 

Of  shadows,  thy  dark  mate.  Per- 
sephone ! 

Queen  of  the  dead  no  more  — my 
child  1 Thine  eyes 


Again  were  human-godlike,  and  the  I 
Sun 

Burst  from  a swimming  fleece  of  wim 
ter  gray, 

And  robed  thee  in  his  day  from  head 
to  feet  — 

“ Mother ! ” and  I was  folded  in  thine 
arms. 

Child,  those  imperial,  disimpas- 
sion’d,  eyes 

Awed  even  me  at  first,  thy  mother  — 
eyes 

That  oft  had  seen  the  serpent-wanded 
power 

Draw  downward  into  Hades  with  his 
drift 

Of  flickering  spectres,  lighted  from 
below 

By  the  red  race  of  fiery  Phlegethon ; 

But  when  before  have  Gods  or  men 
beheld 

The  Life  that  had  descended  re-arise, 

And  lighted  from  above  him  by  the 
Sun  ? 

So  mighty  was  the  mother’s  childless 
cry, 

A cry  that  rang  thro’  Hades,  Earth, 
and  Heaven! 

So  in  this  pleasant  vale  we  stand 
again, 

The  field  of  Enna,  now  once  more 
ablaze 

With  flowers  that  brighten  as  th} 
footstep  falls, 

All  flowers  — but  for  one  black  blut 
of  earth 

Left  by  that  closing  chasm,  thro1 
which  the  car 

Of  dark  Aidoneus  rising  rapt  the* 
hence. 

And  here,  my  child,  tho’  folded  in 
thine  arms, 

I feel  the  deathless  heart  of  mother 
hood 

Within  me  shudder,  lest  the  nakec 
glebe 

Should  yawn  once  more  into  the 
gulf,  and  thence 

The  shrilly  whinny ings  of  the  tean 
of  Hell, 


DEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE. 


653 


jcending,  pierce  the  glad  and  song- 
ful air, 

id  all  at  once  their  arch’d  necks, 
midnight-maned, 

t upward  thro’  the  mid-day  blos- 
som. No! 

r,  see,  thy  foot  has  touch’d  it;  all 
the  space 

blank  earth-baldness  clothes  itself 
afresh, 

id  breaks  into  the  crocus-purple 
hour 

at  saw  thee  vanish. 

Child,  when  thou  wert  gone, 
envied  human  wives,  and  nested 
birds, 

a,  the  cubb’d  lioness ; went  in 
search  of  thee 

jo’  many  a palace,  many  a cot, 
and  gave 

y breast  to  ailing  infants  in  the 
night, 

id  set  the  mother  waking  in  amaze 
find  her  sick  one  whole;  and  forth 
again 

long  the  wail  of  midnight  winds, 
and  cried, 

inhere  is  my  loved  one  ? Where- 
fore do  ye  wail  ? ” 
d out  from  all  the  night  an  answer 
shrill’d, 

/ e know  not,  and  we  know  not  why 
we  wail.” 

limb’d  on  all  the  cliffs  of  all  the 
seas, 

d ask’d  the  waves  that  moan  about 
the  world 

/here  1 do  ye  make  your  moaning 
for  my  child  ? ” 

d round  from  all  the  world  the 
voices  came 

ii7e  know  not,  and  we  know  not  why 
we  moan.” 

/here  ” ? and  I stared  from  every 
eagle-peak, 

uiridded  the  black  heart  of  all  the 
woods, 

?er’d  thro’  tomb  and  cave,  and  in 
the  storms 

Autumn  swept  across  the  city,  j 
and  heard  i 


The  murmur  of  their  temples  chant- 
ing me, 

Me,  me,  the  desolate  Mother! 
“ Where  ” ? — and  turn’d. 

And  fled  by  many  a waste,  forlorn  cf 
man, 

And  grieved  for  man  thro’  all  my 
grief  for  thee,  — 

The  jungle  rooted  in  his  shatter’d 
hearth, 

The  serpent  coil’d  about  his  broken 
shaft, 

The  scorpion  crawling  over  naked 
skulls ; — 

I saw  the  tiger  in  the  ruin’d  fane 

Spring  from  his  fallen  God,  but  trace 
of  thee 

I saw  not;  and  far  on,  and,  following 
out 

A league  of  labyrinthine  darkness, 
came 

On  three  gray  heads  beneath  a gleam- 
ing rift. 

“ Where  ” ? and  I heard  one  voice 
from  all  the  three 

“We  know  not,  for  we  spin  the  lives 
of  men, 

And  not  of  Gods,  and  know  not  why 
we  spin  ! 

There  is  a Fate  beyond  us.”  Nothing 
knew. 

Last  as  the  likeness  of  a dying 
man, 

Without  his  knowledge,  from  him 
flits  to  warn 

A far-off  friendship  that  he  comes  no 
more, 

So  he,  the  God  of  dreams,  who  heard 
my  cry, 

Drew  from  thyself  the  likeness  of 
thyself 

Without  thy  knowledge,  and  thy 
shadow  past 

Before  me,  crying  “ The  Bright  one 
in  the  highest 

Is  brother  of  the  Dark  one  in  the 
lowest, 

And  Bright  and  Dark  have  sworn 
that  I,  the  child 

Of  thee,  the  great  Earth-Mother, 
thee,  the  Power 


654 


DEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE . 


That  lifts  her  buried  life  from  gloom 
to  bloom, 

Should  be  forever  and  forevermore 

The  Bride  of  Darkness/* 

So  the  Shadow  wail’d. 

Then  I,  Earth-Goddess,  cursed  the 
Gods  of  Heaven. 

I would  not  mingle  with  their  feasts ; 
to  me 

Their  nectar  smack’d  of  hemlock  on 
the  lips, 

Their  rich  ambrosia  tasted  aconite. 

The  man,  that  only  lives  and  loves  an 
hour, 

Seem’d  nobler  than  their  hard  Eter- 
nities. 

My  quick  tears  kill’d  the  flower,  my 
ravings  hush’d 

The  bird,  and  lost  in  utter  grief  I 
fail’d 

To  send  my  life  thro’  olive-yard  and 
vine 

And  golden  grain,  my  gift  to  helpless 
man. 

Rain-rotten  died  the  wheat,  the  bar- 
ley-spears 

Were  hollo w-liusk’d,  the  leaf  fell, 
and  the  sun, 

Pale  at  my  grief,  drew  down  before 
his  time 

Sickening,  and  iEtna  kept  her  winter 
snow. 

Then  He,  the  brother  of  this  Dark- 
ness, He 

Who  still  is  highest,  glancing  from 
his  height 

On  earth  a fruitless  fallow,  when  he 
miss’d 

The  wonted  steam  of  sacrifice,  the 
praise 

And  prayer  of  men,  decreed  that  thou 
should’st  dwell 

For  nine  white  moons  of  each  whole 
year  with  me, 

The  three  dark  ones  in  the  shadow 
with  thy  King. 

Once  more  the  reaper  in  the  gleam 
of  dawn 

Will  see  me  by  the  landmark  far  away, 

Blessing  his  field,  or  seated  in  the  dusk 


Of  even,  by  the  lonely  threshing-flo< 
Rejoicing  in  the  harvest  and  tl 
grange. 

Yet  I,  Earth-Goddess,  am  but  i 
content 

With  them,  who  still  are  highes 
Those  gray  heads, 

What  meant  they  by  their  “Fa 
beyond  the  Fates  ” 

But  younger  kindlier  Gods  to  be 
us  down, 

As  we  bore  down  the  Gods  before  u 
Gods, 

To  quench,  not  hurl  the  thunderbo 
to  stay, 

Not  spread  the  plague,  the  famin 
Gods  indeed, 

To  send  the  noon  into  the  night  a 
break 

The  sunless  halls  of  Hades  in 
Heaven  ? 

Till  thy  dark  lord  accept  and  lo 
the  Sun,  , 

And  all  the  Shadow  die  into  t 
Light, 

When  thou  shalt  dwell  the  wh< 
bright  year  with  me, 

And  souls  of  men,  who  grew  beyo 
their  race, 

And  made  themselves  as  Gods  agaii 
the  fear 

Of  Death  and  Hell;  and  thou  tl 
hast  from  men, 

As  Queen  of  Death,  that  worsl 
which  is  Fear, 

Henceforth,  as  having  risen  from  c 
the  dead, 

Shalt  eversend  thy  life  along  withm 
From  buried  grain  thro’  spring! 
blade,  and  bless 

Their  garner’d  Autumn  also,  re 
with  me, 

Earth-mother,  in  the  harvest  hyn 
of  Earth 

The  worship  which  is  Love,  and 
no  more 

The  Stone,  the  Wheel,  the  dim 
glimmering  lawns 
Of  that  Elysium,  all  the  hateful  fi 
Of  torment,  and  the  shadowy  warr 
glide 

Along  the  silent  field  of  Asphodel, 


uWD  ROA, 


65S 


OWD  ROA.1 


vay,  noa  mander2  o’  use  to  be  callin’  ’m  Roa,  Roa,  Roa, 

>’  the  dog’s  stoan-deaf,  an’  e’s  blind,  ’e  can  neither  stan’  nor  goa. 

it  I means  fur  to  maake  ’is  owd  aage  as  ’appy  as  iver  I can, 
ir  I owiis  owd  Roaver  moor  nor  I iver  owad  mottal  man. 

iou’s  rode  of  ’is  back  when  a babby,  afoor  thou  was  gotten  too  owd, 

>r  ’e’d  fetch  an’  carry  like  owt,  ’e  was  alius  as  good  as  gowd. 

i,  but  ’e’d  fight  wi’  a will  when  ’e  fowt;  ’e  could  howd3  ’is  oan, 
i’  Roa  was  the  dog  as  knaw’d  when  an’  wheere  to  bury  his  boane. 

a’  ’e  kep  his  head  hoop  like  a king,  an’  ’e’d  niver  not  down  wi’  ’is  taail, 
ir  ’e’d  niver  done  nowt  to  be  shaamed  on,  when  we  was  i’  Howlaby  Daale. 

a’  ’e  sarved  me  sa  well  when  ’e  lived,  that,  Dick,  when  ’e  cooms  to  be  dead 
:hinks  as  I’d  like  fur  to  hev  soom  soort  of  a sarvice  read. 

ir  ’e’s  moor  good  sense  na  the  Parliament  man  ’at  stans  fur  us  ’ere, 
a’  I’d  voat  fur  ’im,  my  oan  sen,  if  ’e  could  but  stan  fur  the  Shere. 

?aaithful  an’  True”  — them  words  be  ’Scriptur  — an’  Fa'aithful  an’  True 
1 be  fun’4  upo’  four  short  legs  ten  times  fur  one  upo’  two. 

1’  maaybe  they’ll  walk  upo’  two  but  I knaws  they  runs  upo’  four,5  — 

?dtime,  Dicky  ! but  waait  till  tha  ’ears  it  be  strikin’  the  hour. 

Lr  I wants  to  tell  tha  o’  Roa  when  we  lived  i’  Howlaby  Daale, 
n year  sin  — Naiiy  — naiiy  ! tha  mun  nobbut  hev’  one  glass  of  aale. 

2 

raange  an’  owd-farran’d6  the  ’ouse,  an’  belt7  long  afoor  my  daay 
i’  haafe  o’  the  chimleys  a-twizzen’d8  an’  twined  like  a band  o’  haay. 

le  fellers  as  maakes  them  picturs,  ’ud  coom  at  the  fall  o’  the  year, 

V sattle  their  ends  upo  stools  to  pictur  the  door-poorch  theere, 

i’  the  Heagle  ’as  hed  two  heads  stannin’  theere  o’  the  brokken  stick;9 
i’  they  niver  ’ed  seed  sich  ivin’10  as  graw’d  hall  ower  the  brick; 

t’  theere  i’  the  ’ouse  one  night  — but  it’s  down,  an’  all  on  it  now 
♦an  into  mangles  an’  tonups,11  an’  raiived  slick  thruf  by  the  plow  * — 

cteere,  when  the  ’ouse  wUr  a house,  one  night  I wur  sittin’  aloan, 
i’  Roaver  athurt  my  feeat,  an’  sieeapin  still  as  a stoan, 


n 

! 1 Old  Rover.  2 Manner, 

k * “ Owd-farran’d,1"  old-fashioned. 
’Ona  staff  ragule. 


3 Hold.  4 Found.  5 “ Ou  ” as  in  “ house  ” 

7 Built.  8 “ Twizzen’d,”  twisted. 

10  Ivy.  11  Mangolds  and  turnips. 


6S6 


OWD  ROA. 


Of  a Christmas  Eave,  an’  as  cowd  as  this,  an’  the  midders  1 as  white. 

An’  the  fences  all  on  ’em  bolster’d  oop  wi’  the  windle2  that  night; 

An’  the  cat  wur  a-sleeapin  alongside  Roaver,  but  I wur  awaake, 

An’  smoakin’  an’  thinkin’  o’  things  — Doant  maake  thysen  sick  wi’  the  caak 

Fur  the  men  ater  supper  ’ed  sung  their  songs  an’  ’ed  ’ed  their  beer, 

An’  ’ed  goan  their  waays ; ther  was  nobbut  three,  an’  noan  on  ’em  theere. 

They  was  all  on  ’em  fear’d  o’  the  Ghoast  an’  dussn’t  not  sleeap  i’  the  ’ouse, 
But  Dicky,  the  Ghoast  moastlins  3 was  nobbut  a rat  or  a mouse. 


An’  I loookt  out  wonst 4 at  the  night,  an’  the  daale  was  ail  of  a thaw, 

Fur  I seed  the  beck  coomin’  down  like  a long  black  snaake  i’  the  snaw, 

An’  I heard  great  heaps  o’  the  snaw  slushin’  down  fro’  the  bank  to  the  beck 
An’  then  as  I stood  i’  the  doorwaay,  I feeald  it  drip  o’  my  neck. 


Saw  I turn’d  in  agean,  an’  I thowt  o’  the  good  owd  times  ’at  was  goan, 

An’  the  munney  they  maade  by  the  war,  an’  the  times  ’at  was  coomin’  on; 


Fur  I thowt  if  the  Staate  was  a gawin’  to  let  in  furriners  wheat, 
Howiver  was  British  farmers  to  stan’  agean  o’  their  feeat. 


Howiver  was  I fur  to  find  my  rent  an’  to  pa'ay  my  men  ? 

An’  ail  along  o’  the  feller5  as  turn’d  ’is  back  of  hissen. 

Thou  slep  i’  the  chaumber  above  us,  we  couldn’t  ha’  ’eard  tha  call, 

Sa  Moother  ’ed  tell’d  ma  to  bring  tha  down,  an’  thy  craadle  an’  all; 

Fur  the  gell  o’  the  farm  ’at  slep  wi’  tha  then  ’ed  gotten  wer  leave, 

Fur  to  goa  that  night  to  ’er  foalk  by  cause  o’  the  Christmas  Eave; 

But  I clean  forgot  tha,  my  lad,  when  Moother  ’ed  gotten  to  bed, 

An’  I slep  i’  my  chair  hup-on-end,  an’  the  Freea  Traade  runn’d  i’  my  ’ead, 

Till  I dream’d  ’at  Squire  walkt  in,  an’  I says  to  him  “ Squire,  ya’re  laate,” 
Then  I seed  at  ’is  faiice  wur  as  red  as  the  Yuleblock  tlieer  i’  the  graate. 

An’  ’e  says  “ can  ya  paay  me  the  rent  to-night  ? ” an’  I says  to  ’im  “ Noa,” 
An’  ’e  cotch’d  howd  hard  o’  my  hairm,0  “ Then  hout  to-night  tha  shall  goa/’ 

“Tha’ll  niver,”  says  I,  “be  a-turnin  ma  hout  upo’  Christmas  Eave?  ” 

Then  I waaked  an’  I fun  it  was  Roaver  a-tuggin’  an’  tearin’  my  sheave. 

An’  I thowt  as  ’e’d  goan  cleiin-wud,7  fur  I noiiwaeys  knaw’d  ’is  intent; 

An’  I says  “ Git  awaay,  ya  beast,”  an’  I fetcht  ’im  a kick  an’  ’e  went. 

Then  ’e  tummled  up  stairs,  fur  I ’eard  ’im,  as  if  ’e’d  ’a  brokken  ’is  neck, 

An’  I’d  clear  forgot,  little  Dicky,  thy  chaumber  door  wouldn’t  sneck  ;8 


1 Meadows. 
4 Once. 


2 Drifted  snow. 
f>  Peel. 


3 “ Moastlins,”  for  the  most  part,  generally. 
« Arm.  7 Mad.  8 Latch. 


OlVD  ROA. 


657 


An’  I slep’  i’  my  chair  agean  wi’  my  hairm  hingin,  down  to  the  floor, 

A.n’  I tliowt  it  was  Roaver  a-tuggin’  an’  tearin’  me  wuss  nor  afoor. 

Am’  I thowt  ’at  I kick’d  ’im  agean,  but  I kick’d  thy  Moother  istead, 

* What  arta  snorin’  theere  fur  1 the  house  is  afire,”  she  said. 

Fhy  Moother  ’ed  bean  a-naggin’  about  the  gell  o’  the  farm, 

She  offens  ’ud  spy  summut  wrong  when  there  warn’t  not  a mossel  o’  harm; 

An’  she  didn’t  not  solidly  mean  I wur  gawin’  that  waay  to  the  bad, 

?ur  the  gell1  was  as  howry  a trollope  as  iver  traaps’dV  the  squad. 

3ut  Moother  was  free  of  ’er  tongue,  as  I offens  ’ev  tell’d  ’er  mysen, 

■>a  I kep  i’  my  chair,  fur  I thowt  she  was  nobbut  a-rilin’  ma  then. 

An’  I says  “ I’d  be  good  to  tha,  Bess,  if  tha’d  onywa'ays  let  ma  be  good,” 
lut  she  skelpt  ma  haafe  ower  i’  the  chair,  an’  screead  like  a Howl  gone  wud2 — 

: Ya  mun  run  fur  the  lether.3  Git  oop,  if  ya’re  onywaays  good  for  owt.” 

And  I says  “ If  I beant  noawaays  — not  nowadaays  — good  fur  nowt  — 

: Yit  I beant  sich  a Nowt4  of  all  Nowts  as  ’ull  hallus  do  as  ’e’s  bid.” 

! But  the  stairs  is  afire,”  she  said ; then  I seed  ’er  a-cryin’,  I did. 

^.n’  she  beald  “ Ya  mun  saave  little  Dick,  an’  be  sharp  about  it  an*  all,” 
la  I runs  to  the  yard  fur  a lether,  an’  sets  ’im  agean  the  wall, 

in’  I claums  an’  I mashes  the  winder  hin,  when  I gits  to  the  top, 
lut  the  heat  druv  hout  i’  my  heyes  till  I feald  mysen  ready  to  drop. 

"hy  Moother  was  howdin’  the  lether,  an’  tellin’  me  not  to  be  skeard, 
in*  I wasn’t  afeard,  or  I thinks  leastwaays  as  I wasn’t  afeard ; 

»ut  I couldn’t  see  for  the  smoake  wheere  thou  was  a-liggin,  my  lad, 
m’  Roaver  was  theere  i’  the  chaumber  a-yowlin’  an’  yaupin’  like  mad; 

,n’  thou  was  a-bealin’  likewise,  an’  a-squealin’,  as  if  tha  was  bit, 
n’  it  wasn’t  a bite  but  a burn,  fur  the  merk’s  5 o’  thy  shou’der  yit ; 

hen  I call’d  out  Roa,  Roa,  Roa,  thaw  I didn’t  haafe  think  as  ’e’d  ’ear, 

*at  *e  coom’d  thruf  the  fire  wi ’ my  bairn  i* ’ s mouth  to  the  winder  theere  ! 

e coom’d  like  a Hangel  o’  marcy  as  soon  as  ’e  ’eard  ’is  naame, 
r like  tother  Hangel  i’  Scriptur  ’at  summun  seed  i’  the  flaame, 

/Tien  summun  ’ed  hax’d  fur  a son,  an’  *e  promised  a son  to  she, 
n’  Roa  was  as  good  as  the  Hangel  i’  saavin’  a son  fur  me. 

1 The  girl  was  as  dirty  a slut  as  ever  trudged  in  the  mud,  but  there  is  a sense  of  slatternll- 
iss  in  “ traapes’d  ” which  is  not  expressed  in  “ trudged.” 

2 She  half  overturned  me  and  shrieked  like  an  owl  gone  mad.  5 Ladder. 

4 A thoroughly  insignificant  or  worthless  person.  « Mark. 


658 


VASTNESS. 


Sa  I browt  tha  down,  an’  I says  “I  mun  gaw  up  agean  fur  Roa.” 

“ Gaw  up  agean  fur  the  varmint  ? ” I teli’d  ’er  “ Yeas  I maun  goa. 

An'  I claumb’d  up  agean  to  the  winder,  an’  clemm’d 1 owd  Roa  by  the  ’e'ad, 
An’  ’is  ’air  coom’d  off  i’  my  ’ands  an’  1 taaked  ’im  at  fust  fur  dead ; 

Fur  ’e  smell’d  like  a herse  a-singein’,  an’  seeam’d  as  blind  as  a poop, 

An’  haafe  on  ’im  bare  as  a bublin’.*  I couldn’t  wakken  ’im  oop, 

But  I browt  ’im  down,  an’  we  got  to  the  barn,  fur  the  barn  wouldn’t  burn 
Wi’  the  wind  blawin’  hard  tother  waay,  an’  the  wind  wasn’t  like  to  turn. 

An’  I kep  a-callin’  o’  Roa  till  ’e  waggled  ’is  taail  fur  a bit, 

But  the  cocks  kep  a-crawin’  an’  crawin’  all  night,  an’  I ’ears  em  yit; 

An’  the  dogs  was  a-yowlin’  all  round,  and  thou  was  a-squealin  thysen, 

An’  Moother  was  naggin’  an’  groanin  an  moanin  an  naggin  agean ; 

An’  I ’eard  the  bricks  an’  the  baulks3  rummie  down  when  the  roof  gev  waay 
Fur  the  fire  was  a-raagin’  an’  raavin’  an’  roarin’  like  judgment  daay. 

Warm  enew  theere  sewer-ly,  but  the  barn  was  as  cowd  as  owt, 

An’  we  cuddled  and  huddled  togither,  an’  happt4  wersens  oop  as  we  mowt. 

An’  I browt  Roa  round,  but  Moother  ’ed  bean  sa  soak’d  wi’  the  thaw 
’At  she  cotch’d  ’er  death  o’  cowd  that  night,  poor  soul,  i’  the  straw. 

Haafe  o’  the  parish  runn’d  oop  when  the  rigtree5  was  tummlin’  in 
Too  laate — but  it’s  all  ower  now  — hall  hower  — an’  ten  year  sin ; 

Too  laate,  tha  mun  git  tha  to  bed,  but  I’ll  coom  an’  I’ll  squench  the  light, 
Fur  we  moant  ’ev  naw  moor  fires  — and  soa  little  Dick,  good-night. 


VASTNESS. 


Many  a hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after  many  a vanish’d  face, 
Many  a planet  by  many  a sun  may  roll  with  the  dust  of  a vanish  d race. 


ii. 


Raving  politics,  never  at  rest  — as  this  poor  earth’s  pale  history  runs, 
What  is  it  all  but  a trouble  of  ants  in  the  gleam  of  a million  million  of  sun 


hi. 

Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side,  truthless  violence  mourn’d  by 
Wise 

Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a popular  torrent  of  lies  upon  li 


i Clutched.  2 “ Bubbling,”  a young  unfledged  bird.  3 Beams  . 4 Wrapt  our8el 

* The  beam  that  runs  along  the  roof  of  the  bouse  just  beneath  the  ridge. 


) 


VASTNESS . 


659 


IV. 

Stately  purposes,  valor  in  battle,  glorious  annals  of  army  and  fleet, 

Death  for  the  right  cause,  death  for  the  wrong  cause,  trumpets  of  victory, 
groans  of  defeat ; 

v. 

nnocence  seethed  in  her  mother’s  milk,  and  Charity  setting  the  martyr 
aflame ; 

Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of  Freedom,  and  recks  not  to  ruin  a 
realm  in  her  name. 

VI. 

Paith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the  gloom  of  doubts  that  darken  the 
schools  ; 

Praft  with  a bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand,  follow’d  up  by  her  vassal  legion 
of  fools ; 

VII. 

Trade  flying  over  a thousand  seas  with  her  spice  and  her  vintage,  her  silk  and 
her  corn ; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbors,  famishing  populace,  wharves  forlorn ; 

VIII. 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise ; gloom  of  the  evening,  Life  at  a 
close ; 

Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  down-way  with  her  flying  robe  and  her 
poison’d  rose ; 


Pain,  that  has  crawl’d  from  the  corpse  of  Pleasure,  a worm  which  writhes  all 
day,  and  at  night 

Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper,  and  stings  him  back  to  the  curse  of 
the  light; 


Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded  harlots;  honest  Poverty,  bare  to  the 
bone ; 

)pulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty  ; Flattery  gilding  the  rift  in  a throne ; 

XI. 

fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trumpet  a jubilant  challenge  to  Time  and 
to  Fate ; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on  all  the  laurel’d  graves  of  the  Great; 

x„. 

iove  for  the  maiden,  crown’d  with  marriage,  no  regrets  for  aught  that  has 
been, 

lousehold  happiness,  gracious  children,  debtless  competence,  golden  mean ; 

XIII. 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and  pigmy  spites  of  the  village  spire; 

/ows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle,  and  vows  that  are  snapt  in  a 
moment  of  fire ; 


660 


THE  RING. 


x IV. 

He  that  has  lived  for  the  lust  of  the  minute,  and  died  in  the  doing  it,  flesh 
without  mind ; . ... 

He  that  has  nail’d  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till  Self  died  out  in  the  love  of  his 
kind ; 


xv. 

Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and  Winter,  and  all  these  old  revolutions  oi 

AU  new-old’ revolutions  of  Empire  — change  of  the  tide  — what  is  all  oi 
it  worth  ? 


XVI. 


What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences,  poesy,  varying  voices  of  prayer  ? 
All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all  that  is  filthy  with  all  that  is  fair  . 


XVII. 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in  being  our  own  corpse-coffins  at  last, 
Swallow’d  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence,  drown’d  in  the  deeps  of  a meamngles 
Past  1 


XVIII. 


What  but  a murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom,  or  a moment’s  anger  of  bees  i 
their  hive  ? — 


Peace,  let  it  be!  for  I loved  him,  and  love  him  forever:  the  dead  are  ni 
dead  but  alive. 


Dedicated  to  the  Hon . J.  Russell  Lowell. 

THE  RING. 

Miriam  and  her  Father, 
miriam  ( singing ). 

Mellow  moon  of  heaven, 
Bright  in  blue, 

Moon  of  married  hearts, 

Hear  me,  you ! 

Twelve  times  in  the  year 
Bring  me  bliss, 

Globing  Honey  Moons 
Bright  as  this. 

Moon,  you  fade  at  times 
From  the  night. 

Young  again  you  grow 
Out  of  sight. 


Silver  crescent-curve, 

Coming  soon, 

Globe  again,  and  make 
Honey  Moon. 

Shall  not  my  love  last, 

Moon,  with  you, 

For  ten  thousand  years 
Old  and  new  i 

FATHER. 

And  who  was  he  with  such  lov 
drunken  eyes 

They  made  a thousand  honey  moo 
of  one  ? 

MIRIAM. 

The  prophet  of  his  own,  my  Hulx 
— his 


THE  RING. 


661 


The  words,  and  mine  the  setting. 

“ Air  and  Words,” 

Said  Hubert,  when  I sang  the  song, 
“ are  bride 

And  bridegroom.”  Does  it  please 
you  ? 

FATHER. 

Mainly,  child, 
3ecause  I hear  your  Mother’s  voice 
in  yours. 

jjhe , why,  you  shiver  tho’  the 

wind  is  west 

Vith  all  the  warmth  of  summer. 

MIRIAM. 

Well,  I felt 

>n  a sudden  I know  not  what,  a 
breath  that  past 
Vith  all  the  cold  of  winter. 

father  ( muttering  to  himself ). 

Even  so. 

'he  Ghost  in  Man,  the  Ghost  that 
once  was  Man, 

Jut  cannot  wholly  free  itself  from 
Man, 

[kre  calling  to  each  other  thro"  a dawn 
tranger  than  earth  has  ever  seen ; 
the  veil 

} rending,  and  the  Voices  of  the  day 
re  heard  across  the  Voices  of  the  dark, 
o sudden  heaven,  nor  sudden  hell, 
for  man, 

ut  thro’  the  Will  of  One  who  knows 
and  rules  — 

nd  utter  knowledge  is  but  utter 
love  — 

Ionian  Evolution,  swift  or  slow, 
hro’  all  the  Spheres  — an  ever  open- 
ing height, 

n ever  lessening  earth  — and  she 
perhaps, 

y Miriam,  breaks  her  latest  earthly 
link 

ith  me  to-day. 

MIRIAM. 

You  speak  so  low,  what  is  it  ? 
mr  “ Miriam  breaks  ” — is  making 
a new  link 
eaking  an  old  one  ? 


FATHER. 

No,  for  we,  my  child, 

Have  been  till  now  each  other’s  all- 
in-all. 

MIRIAM. 

And  you  the  lifelong  guardian  of  the 
child. 

FATHER. 

I,  and  one  other  whom  you  have  not 
known. 

MIRIAM. 

And  who  ? what  other? 


FATHER. 

Whither  are  you  bound  ? 

For  Naples  which  we  only  left  in 
May? 

MIRIAM. 

No!  father,  Spain,  but  Hubert  brings 
me  home 

With  April  and  the  swallow.  Wish 
me  joy! 

FATHER. 

What  need  to  wish  when  Hubert 
weds  in  you 

The  heart  of  Love,  and  you  the  soul 
of  Truth 

In  Hubert  ? 


MIRIAM. 

Tho’  you  used  to  call  me  once 
The  lonely  maiden-Princess  of  the 
wood, 

Who  meant  to  sleep  her  hundred 
summers  out 

Before  a kiss  should  wake  her. 

FATHER. 

Ay,  but  now 

Your  fairy  Prince  has  found  you, 
take  this  ring. 


662 


THE  RING. 


MIRIAM. 

« Io  t’amo ” — and  these  diamonds  — 
beautiful ! 

“From  Walter,”  and  for  me  from 
you  then  ? 

FATHER. 

Well, 

One  way  for  Miriam. 

MIRIAM/ 

Miriam  am  I not  ? 

FATHER. 

This  ring  bequeath’d  you  by  your 
mother,  child, 

Was  to  be  given  you — such  her 
dying  wish  — 

Given  on  the  morning  when  you  came 
of  age 

Or  on  the  day  you  married.  Both 
the  days 

Now  close  in  one.  The  ring  is  doubly 
yours. 

Why  do  you  look  so  gravely  at  the 
tower  ? 

MIRIAM. 

I never  saw  it  yet  so  all  ablaze 

With  creepers  crimsoning  to  the  pin- 
nacles, 

As  if  perpetual  sunset  linger’d  there, 

And  all  ablaze  too  in  the  lake  below ! 

And  how  the  birds  that  circle  round 
the  tower 

Are  cheeping  to  each  other  of  their 
flight 

To  summer  lands ! 

FATHER. 

And  that  has  made  you  grave? 

Fly  — care  not.  Birds  and  brides 
must  leave  the  nest. 

Child,  I am  happier  in  your  happi- 
ness 

Than  in  mine  own. 

mjriam. 

It  is  not  that ! 


FATHER. 

What  else 

MIRIAM. 

That  chamber  in  the  tower. 

FATHER. 

What  chamber,  child 

Your  nurse  is  here? 

MIRIAM. 

My  Mother’s  nurse  and  mint 

She  comes  to  dress  me  in  my  brida 
veil. 

FATHER. 

What  did  she  say  ? 

MIRIAM. 

She  said,  that  you  and 

Had  been  abroad  for  my  poor  healt 
so  long 

She  fear’d  I had  forgotten  her,  and 
ask’d 

About  my  Mother,  and  she  sai 
“ Thy  hair 

Is  golden  like  thy  Mother’s,  not  s 
fine.” 

FATHER. 

What  then  ? what  more  ? 

MIRIAM. 

She  said  — perhaps  inde< 

She  wander’d,  having  wander’d  m 
so  far 

Beyond  the  common  date  of  death 
that  you, 

When  I was  smaller  than  the  statuel 

Of  my  dear  Mother  on  your  brack 
here  — 

You  took  me  to  that  chamber  in  t 
tower, 

The  topmost  — a chest  there,  by  whi 
you  knelt  — 

And  there  were  books  and  dresses 
left  to  me, 

A ring  too  which  you  kiss’d,  and 

1 she  said, 


I 


THE  RING . 


663 


I babbled,  Mother,  Mother  — as  I used 

To  prattle  to  her  picture  — stretch’d 
my  hands 

As  if  I saw  her ; then  a woman  came 

And  caught  me  from  my  nurse.  I 
hear  her  yet  — 

A sound  of  anger  like  a distant  storm. 

FATHER. 

Garrulous  old  crone. 

MIRIAM. 

Poor  nurse ! 

FATHER. 

I bad  her  keep, 

Like  a seal’d  book,  all  mention  of 
the  ring, 

For  I myself  would  tell  you  all  to-day. 

MIRIAM. 

“ She  too  might  speak  to-day,”  she 
mumbled.  Still, 

I scarce  have  learnt  the  title  of  your 
book, 

But  you  will  turn  the  pages. 

FATHER. 

Ay,  to-day ! 

[ brought  you  to  that  chamber  on 
your  third 

September  birthday  with  you*  nurse, 
and  felt 

Am  icy  breath  play  on  me,  while  I 
stoopt 

To  take  and  kiss  the  ring. 

MIRIAM. 

This  very  ring 

to  t'amo* 

FATHER. 

Yes,  for  some  wild  hope  was  mine 

That,  in  the  misery  of  my  married  life, 

Vliriam  your  Mother  might  appear  to 
me. 

.She  came  to  you,  not  me.  The  storm, 
you  hear  • 

; i'ar-off,  is  Muriel  — your  step- 
mother’s voice. 


MIRIAM. 

Yext,  that  you  thought  my  Mother 
came  to  me  ? 

Or  at  my  crying  “ Mother  ? ” or  to  find 

My  Mother’s  diamonds  hidden  from 
her  there, 

Like  worldly  beauties  in  the  Cell; 
not  shown 

To  dazzle  all  that  see  them  ? 

FATHER. 

Wait  a while. 

Your  Mother  and  step-mother  — 
Miriam  Erne 

And  Muriel  Erne  — the  two  were 
cousins  — lived 

With  Muriel’s  mother  on  the  down, 
that  sees 

A thousand  squares  of  corn  and 
meadow,  far 

As  the  gray  deep,  a landscape  which 
your  eyes 

Have  many  a time  ranged  over  when 
a babe. 

MIRIAM. 

I climb’d  the  hill  with  Hubert  yester- 
day, 

And  from  the  thousand  squares,  one 
silent  voice 

Came  on  the  wind,  and  seem’d  to 
say  “ Again.” 

We  saw  far  off  an  old  forsaken  house, 

Then  home,  and  past  the  ruin’d  mill. 

FATHER. 

And  there 

I found  these  cousins  often  by  the 
brook, 

For  Miriam  sketch’d  and  Muriel 
threw  the  fly; 

The  girls  of  equal  age,  but  one  was 
fair, 

And  one  was  dark,  and  both  were 
beautiful. 

No  voice  for  either  spoke  within  my 
heart 

Then,  for  the  surface  eye,  that  only 
doats 

On  outward  beauty,  glancing  from 
the  one 


664 


THE  RING. 


To  the  other,  knew  not  that  which 
pleased  it  most, 

The  raven  ringlet  or  tho  gold;  but 
both 

Were  dowerless,  and  myself,  I used 
to  walk 

This  Terrace  — morbid,  melancholy; 
mine 

And  yet  not  mine  the  hall,  the  farm, 
the  field ; 

For  all  that  ample  woodland  whis- 
per’d “ debt,” 

The  brook  that-  feeds  this  lakelet 
murmur’d  “debt,” 

And  in  yon  arching  avenue  of  old 
elms, 

Tho’  mine,  not  mine,  I heard  the 
sober  rook 

And  carrion  crow  cry  “ Mortgage.” 

MIRIAM. 

Father’s  fault 

Visited  on  the  children  ! 

FATHER. 

Ay,  but  then 

A kinsman,  dying,  summon’d  me  to 
Rome  — 

He  left  me  wealth — and  while  I 
journey’d  hence, 

And  saw  the  world  fly  by  me  like  a 
dream, 

And  while  I communed  with  my 
truest  self, 

I woke  to  all  of  truest  in  myself, 

Till,  in  the  gleam  of  those  mid-sum- 
mer dawns, 

The  form  of  Muriel  faded,  and  the  face 

Of  Miriam  grew  upon  me,  till  I knew  ; 

And  past  and  future  mix’d  in  Heaven 
and  made 

The  rosy  twilight  of  a perfect  day. 

MIRIAM. 

So  glad  ? no  tear  for  him,  who  left 
you  wealth, 

Your  kinsman  ? 

FATHER. 

I had  seen  the  man  but  once ; 

He  loved  my  name  not  me ; and  then 
I pass’d 


Home,  and  thro’  Venice,  where  a 
jeweller. 

So  far  gone  down,  or  so  far  up  in  life, 

That  he  was  nearing  his  own  hundred, 
sold 

This  ring  to  me,  then  laugh’d  “the 
ring  is  weird.” 

And  weird  and  worn  and  wizard-like 
was  he. 

“ Why  weird  ? ” I ask’d  him;  and  he 
said  “ The  souls 

Of  two  repentant  Lovers  guard  the 
ring ; ” 

Then  with  a ribald  twinkle  in  his 
bleak  eyes  — 

“ And  if  you  give  the  ring  to  any  maid, 

They  still  remember  what  it  costi 
them  here, 

And  bind  the  maid  to  love  you  by 
the  ring; 

And  if  the  ring  were  stolen  from  the 
maid, 

The  theft  were  death  or  madness  to 
the  thief, 

So  sacred  those  Ghost  Lovers  hold 
the  gift.” 

And  then  he  told  their  legend : 

“ Long  ago 

Two  lovers  parted  by  a scurrilous  tale 

Had  quarrell’d,  till  the  man  repenting 
sent 

This  ring  ‘ Io  t’arno  ’ to  his  best  be- 
loved, 

And  sent  it  on  her  birthday.  She  in 
wrath 

Return’d  it  on  her  birthday,  and  that 
day 

His  death-day,  when,  half-frenzied  by 
the  ring, 

He  wildly  fought  a rival  suitor,  him 

The  causer  of  that  scandal,  fought 
and  fell ; 

And  she  that  came  to  part  them  all 
too  late, 

And  found  a corpse  and  silence,  drew 
the  ring 

From  his  dead  finger,  wore  it  till  her 
death, 

Shrined  him  within  the  temple  of  her 
heart, 

Made  every  moment  of  her  after  life 


THE  RiNG. 


665 


virgin  victim  to  his  memory, 
nd  dying  rose,  and  rear’d  her  arms, 
and  cried 

[ see  him,  Io  t’amo,  Io  t’amo.’  ” 

MIRIAM. 

egend  or  true  ? so  tender  should  be 
true ! 

id  he  believe  it?  did  you  ask  him  ? 

FATHER. 

Ay! 

ut  that  half  skeleton,  like  a barren 
ghost 

rom  out  the  fleshless  world  of  spirits, 
laugh’d  : 

hollow  laughter ! 

MIRIAM. 

Vile,  so  near  the  ghost 
imself,  to  laugh  at  love  in  death ! 
But  you? 

FATHER. 

rell,  as  the  bygone  lover  thro’  this 
ring 

ad  sent  his  cry  for  her  forgiveness,  T 
rould  call  thro’  this  “ Io  t’amo  ” to 
the  heart 

f Miriam ; then  I bad  the  man  en- 
grave 

From  Walter  ” on  the  ring,  and  send 
it  — wrote 

ame,  surname,  all  as  clear  as  noon, 
but  he  — 

>me  younger  hand  must  have  en- 
graven the  ring  — 
fis  fingers  were  so  stiffen’d  by  the 
frost 

f seven  and  ninety  winters,  that  he 
scrawl’d 

“Miriam”  that  might  seem  a 
I “Muriel”; 

ad  Muriel  claim’d  and  open’d  what 
„ I meant 

)r  Miriam,  took  the  ring,  and 
, flaunted  it 

Tore  that  other  whom  I loved  and 
B love. 

A mountain  stay’d  me  here,  a min- 
ster there. 


A galleried  palace,  or  a battlefield, 

Where  stood  the  sheaf  of  Peace  : but 
— coming  home  — 

And  on  your  Mother’s  birthday  — all 
but  yours  — 

A week  betwixt  — and  when  the  tower 
as  now 

Was  all  ablaze  with  crimson  to  the 
roof, 

And  all  ablaze  too  plunging  in  the  lake 

Head-foremost  — who  were  those  that 
stood  between 

The  tower  and  that  rich  phantom  of 
the  tower  ? 

Muriel  and  Miriam,  each  in  white, 
and  like 

May -blossoms  in  mid  autumn  — was 
it  they  ? 

A light  shot  upward  on  them  from 
the  lake. 

What  sparkled  there?  whose  hand 
was  that  ? they  stood 

So  close  together.  I am  not  keen  of 
sight, 

But  coming  nearer  — Muriel  had  the 
ring  — 

“ O Miriam ! have  you  given  your 
ring  to  her  ? 

O Miriam!”  Miriam  redden’d,  Muriel 
clench’d 

The  hand  that  wore  It,  till  I cried 
again  : 

“O  Miriam,  if  you  love  me  take  the 
ring ! ” 

She  glanced  at  me,  at  Muriel,  and 
was  mute. 

“Nay,  if  you  cannot  love  me,  let  it  be.” 

Then- — Muriel  standing  ever  statue* 
like  — 

She  turn’d,  and  in  her  soft  imperial 
way 

And  saying  gently : “ Muriel,  by  your 
leave,” 

Unclosed  the  hand,  and  from  it  drew 
the  ring, 

And  gave  it  me,  who  pass’d  it  down 
her  own, 

“ lo  t’amo,  all  is  well  then.”  Muriel 
fled. 

MIRIAM. 

1 Poor  Muriel ! 


666 


THE  RING. 


FATHER. 

Ay,  poor  Muriel  when  you  hear 

What  follows ! Miriam  loved  me 
from  the  first, 

Not  thro’  the  ring ; but  on  her  mar- 
riage-morn 

This  birthday,  death-day,  and  be- 
trothal ring, 

Laid  on  her  table  overnight,  was  gone ; 

And  after  hours  of  search  and  doubt 
and  threats, 

And  hubbub,  Muriel  enter’d  with  it, 
“ See ! — 

Found  in  a chink  of  that  old  moulder’d 
floor ! ” 

My  Miriam  nodded  with  a pitying 
smile, 

As  who  should  say  “ that  those  who 
lose  can  find.” 

Then  I and  she  were  married  for  a 
year, 

One  year  without  a storm,  or  even  a 
cloud ; 

And  you  my  Miriam  born  within  the 
year ; 

And  she  my  Miriam  dead  within  the 
year. 

I sat  beside  her  dying,  and  she  gaspt : 

“ The  books,  the  miniature,  the  lace 
are  hers, 

My  ring  too  when  she  comes  of  age, 
or  when 

She  marries;  you  — you  loved  me, 
kept  your  word. 

You  love  me  still  ‘ Io  t’amo.’  — Muriel 
— no  — 

She  cannot  love ; she  loves  her  own 
hard  self, 

Her  firm  will,  her  fix’d  purpose. 
Promise  me, 

Miriam  not  Muriel  — she  shall  have 
the  ring.” 

And  there  the  light  of  other  life, 
which  lives 

Beyond  our  burial  and  our  buried  eyes, 

Gleam’d  for  a moment  in  her  own  on 
earth. 

I swore  the  vow,  then  with  my  latest 
kiss 

Upon  them,  closed  her  eyes,  which 
would  not  close, 


But  kept  their  watch  upon  the  rim 
and  you. 

Your  birthday  was  her  death-day. 

MIRIAM. 

O poor  Mother 

And  you,  poor  desolate  Father,  an< 
poor  me, 

The  little  senseless,  worthless,  word 
less  babe, 

Saved  when  your  life  was  wreck’d ! 

FATHER. 

Desolate?  yes 

Desolate  as  that  sailor  whom  th 
storm 

Had  parted  from  his  comrade  in  th 
boat, 

And  dash’d  half  dead  on  barre 
sands,  was  I. 

Nay,  you  were  my  one  solace ; onl 
— you 

Were  always  ailing.  Muriel’s  mothe 
sent, 

And  sure  am  I,  by  Muriel,  one  da 
came 

And  saw  you,  shook  her  head,  an 
patted  yours, 

And  smiled,  and  making  with  a kindl 
pinch 

Each  poor  pale  cheek  a momentar 
rose  — 

“ That  should  be  fix’d,”  she  said 
“ your  pretty  bud, 

So  blighted  here,  would  flower  int 
full  health 

Among  our  heath  and  bracken.  Lc 
her  come ! 

And  we  will  feed  her  with  our  moui 
tain  air, 

And  send  her  home  to  you  rejoicing. 
No  — 

We  could  not  part.  And  once,  who 
you  my  girl 

Rode  on  my  shoulder  home  — th 
tiny  fist 

Had  graspt  a daisy  from  your  Mother 
grave  — 

By  the  lych-gate  was  Muriel.  “ Ay, 
she  said, 

“ Among  the  tombs  in  this  damp  val 
of  yours ! 


THE  RING . 


667 


ou  scorn  ray  Mother’s  warning,  but 
the  child 

5 paler  than  before.  We  often  walk 

1 open  sun,  and  see  beneath  our 
feet 

he  mist  of  autumn  gather  from  your 
lake, 

nd  shroud  the  tower;  and  once  we 
only  saw 

our  gilded  vane,  a light  above  the 
mist  ” — 

Our  old  bright  bird  that  still  is 
veering  there 

.hove  his  four  gold  letters)  “and 
the  light,” 

he  said,  “ was  like  that  light  ” — and 
there  she  paused, 

nd  long;  till  I believing  that  the 
girl’s 

.ean  fancy,  groping  for  it,  could  not 
find 

>ne  likeness,  laugh’d  a little  and 
found  her  two  — 

A warrior’s  crest  above  the  cloud  of 
war”  — 

A fiery  phoenix  rising  from  the 
smoke, 

"he  pyre  he  burnt  in.”  — “Nay,”  she 
said,  “ the  light 

"hat  glimmers  on  the  marsh  and  on 
the  grave.” 

uid  spoke  no  more,  but  turn’d  and 
pass’d  away. 

Miriam,  I am  not  surely  one  of 
those 

taught  by  the  flower  that  closes  on 
the  fly, 

lut  after  ten  slow  weeks  her  fix’d 
intent, 

n aiming  at  an  all  but  hopeless  mark 

'Co  strike  it,  struck;  I took,  I left 
you  there ; 

. came,  I went,  was  happier  day  by 

day; 

Tor  Muriel  nursed  you  with  a moth- 
er’s care ; 

Till  on  that  clear  and  heather-scented 
height 

The  rounder  cheek  had  brighten’d 
into  bloom. 

She  always  came  to  meet  me  carrying 

you, 


And  all  her  talk  was  of  the  babe  she 
loved ; 

So,  following  her  old  pastime  of  the 
brook, 

She  threw  the  fly  for  me ; but  oftener 
left 

That  angling  to  the  mother.  “ Muriel’s 
health 

Had  weaken’d,  nursing  little  Miriam. 
Strange ! 

She  used  to  shun  the  wailing  babe, 
and  doats 

On  this  of  yours.”  But  when  the 
matron  saw 

That  hinted  love  was  only  wasted 
bait, 

Not  risen  to,  she  was  bolder.  “ Ever 
since 

You  sent  the  fatal  ring” — I told  her 
“ sent 

To  Miriam,”  “ Doubtless  — ay,  but 
ever  since 

In  all  the  world  my  dear  one  sees 
but  you  — 

In  your  sweet  babe  she  finds  but  you 

— she  makes 

Her  heart  a mirror  that  reflects  but 
you.” 

And  then  the  tear  fell,  the  voice 
broke.  Her  heart! 

I gazed  into  the  mirror,  as  a man 

Who  sees  his  face  in  water,  and  a stone, 

That  glances  from  the  bottom  of  the 
pool, 

Strike  upward  thro’  the  shadow;  yet 
at  last, 

Gratitude  — loneliness  — desire  to 
keep 

So  skilled  a nurse  about  you  always 

— nay ! 

Some  half  remorseful  kind  of  pity 
too  — 

Well!  well,  you  know  I married 
Muriel  Erne. 

“ I take  thee  Muriel  for  my  wedded 
wife  ” — 

I had  forgotten  it  was  your  birthday, 
child  — 

When  all  at  once  with  some  electric 
thrill 

A cold  air  pass’d  between  us,  and  the 

1 hands 


668 


THE  RING. 


Fell  from  each  other,  and  were  join’d 
again. 

No  second  cloudless  honeymoon 
was  mine. 

For  by  and  by  she  sicken’d  of  the 
farce, 

She  dropt  the  gracious  mask  of 
motherhood, 

She  came  no  more  to  meet  me,  carry- 
ing you, 

Nor  ever  cared  to  set  you  on  her  knee, 

Nor  ever  let  you  gambol  in  her  sight, 

Nor  ever  cheer’d  you  with  a kindly 
smile, 

Nor  ever  ceased  to  clamor  for  the 
ring; 

Why  had  I sent  the  ring  at  first  to 
her  ? 

Why  had  I made  her  love  me  thro’ 
the  ring, 

And  then  had  changed  ? so  fickle  are 
men  — the  best ! 

Not  she  — but  now  my  love  was  hers 
again, 

The  ring  by  right,  she  said,  was  hers 
again. 

At  times  too  shrilling  in  her  angrier 
moods, 

“ That  weak  and  watery  nature  love 
you  ? No ! 

* Io  t’amo,  lo  t’amo  ’ ! ” flung  herself 

Against  my  heart,  but  often  while 
her  lips 

Were  warm  upon  my  cheek,  an  icy 
breath, 

As  from  the  grating  of  a sepulchre, 

Past  over  both.  I told  her  of  my 
vow, 

No  pliable  idiot  I to  break  my  vow ; 

But  still  she  made  her  outcry  for  the 
ring; 

For  one  monotonous  fancy  madden’d 
her, 

Till  I myself  was  madden’d  with  her 
cry, 

And  even  that  “Io  t’amo,”  those 
three  sweet 

Italian  words  became  a weariness. 

My  people  too  were  scared  with 
eerie  sounds, 

A footstep,  a low  throbbing  in  the 
walls, 


A noise  of  falling  weights  that  neve 
fell, 

Weird  whispers,  bells  that  rang  with 
out  a hand, 

Door-handles  turn’d  when  none  wa 
at  the  door, 

And  bolted  doors  that  open’d  of  them 
selves : 

And  one  betwixt  the  dark  and  ligh 
had  seen 

Her , bending  by  the  cradle  of  he 
babe. 

MIRIAM. 

And  I remember  once  that  bein; 
waked 

By  noises  in  the  house  — and  no  on 
near  — 

I cried  for  nurse,  and  felt  a gentl 
hand 

Fall  on  my  forehead,  and  a sudde 
face 

Look’d  in  upon  me  like  a gleam  an 
pass’d, 

And  I was  quieted,  and  slept  again. 

Or  is  it  some  half  memory  of  a dream 

FATHER. 

Your  fifth  September  birthday. 

MIRIAM. 

And  the  face 

The  hand,  — my  Mother. 

FATHER. 

Miriam,  on  that  da; 

Two  lovers  parted  by  no  scurrilou 
tale  — 

Mere  want  of  gold  — and  still  fo 
twenty  years 

Bound  by  the  golden  cord  of  thei 
first  love  — 

Had  ask’d  us  to  their  marriage,  an 
to  share 

Their  marriage  - banquet.  Muriel 
paler  then 

Than  ever  you  were  in  your  cradle 
moan’d, 

“ I am  fitter  for  my  bed,  or  for  m; 
grave, 

I cannot  go,  go  you,”  And  then  sh 
rose, 


THE  RING. 


669 


She  clung  to  me  with  such  a hard 
embrace, 

So  lingeringly  long,  that  half-amazed 
[ parted  from  her,  and  I went  alone. 
And  when  the  bridegroom  murmur’d, 
“ With  this  ring,” 

[ felt  for  what  I could  not  find,  the 
key, 

The  guardian  of  her  relics,  of  her 
ring. 

[ kept  it  as  a sacred  amulet 
About  me,  — gone  ! and  gone  in  that 
embrace ! 

Then,  hurrying  home,  I found  her 
not  in  house 

Dr  garden  — up  the  tower  — an  icy 
air 

[Tied  by  me.  — There,  the  chest  was 
open  — all 

Che  sacred  relics  tost  about  the 
floor  — 

Among  them  Muriel  lying  on  her 
face  — 

[ raised  her,  call’d  her  “ Muriel, 
Muriel  wake  ! ” 

The  fatal  ring  lay  near  her;  the 
glazed  eye 

xlared  at  me  as  in  horror.  Dead ! 
I took 

And  chafed  the  freezing  hand.  A red 
mark  ran 

All  round  one  finger  pointed  straight, 
the  rest 

Vere  crumpled  inwards.  Dead  ! — 
and  maybe  stung 

With  some  remorse,  had  stolen,  worn 
the  ring  — 

^hen  torn  it  from  her  finger,  or  as 
) if  — 

ror  never  had  I seen  her  show 
fc  remorse  — 

Ls  if  — 

MIRIAM. 

— those  two  Ghost  lovers  — 


FATHER. 


Lovers  yet  — 


MIRIAM. 

es,  yes ! 


FATHER. 

— but  dead  so  long,  gone  up  so  far, 

That  now  their  ever-rising  life  hap 
dwarf’d 

Or  lost  the  moment  of  their  past  on 
earth, 

As  we  forget  our  wail  at  being  born. 

As  if  — 

MIRIAM. 

a dearer  ghost  had  — 

FATHER. 

— wrench’d  it  away. 

MIRIAM. 

Had  floated  in  with  sad  reproachful 
eyes, 

Till  from  her  own  hand  she  had  torn 
the  ring 

In  fright,  and  fallen  dead.  And  I 
myself 

Am  half  afraid  to  wear  it. 

FATHER. 

Well,  no  more  > 

No  bridal  music  this ! but  fear  not  you ! 

You  have  the  ring  she  guarded ; that 
poor  link 

With  earth  is  broken,  and  has  left  her 
free, 

Except  that,  still  drawn  downward 
for  an  hour, 

Her  spirit  hovering  by  the  church, 
where  she 

Was  married  too,  may  linger,  till  she 
sees 

Her  maiden  coming  like  a Queen,  who 
leaves 

Some  colder  province  in  the  North  to 
gain 

Her  capital  city,  where  the  loyal  bells 

Clash  welcome — linger,  till  her  own, 
the  babe 

She  lean’d  to  from  her  Spiritual  sphere, 

Her  lonely  maiden-Princess,  crown’d 
with  flowers, 

Has  enter’d  on  the  larger  woman-world 

Of  wives  and  mothers. 

But  the  bridal  veil  — 

Your  nurse  is  waiting.  Kiss  me  child 
and  go. 


670 


FORLORN. ; 


FORLORN. 

i. 

“ He  is  fled  — I wish  him  dead  — 
He  that  wrought  my  ruin  — 

O the  flattery  and  the  craft 
Which  were  my  undoing  . . . 

In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

When  the  storms  are  blowing. 

ii. 

“ Who  was  witness  of  the  crime  ? 

Who  shall  now  reveal  it  ? 

He  is  fled,  or  he  is  dead, 

Marriage  will  conceal  it  . . . 

In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

While  the  gloom  is  growing.” 

hi. 

Catherine,  Catherine,  in  the  night 
What  is  this  you’re  dreaming  ? 
There  is  laughter  down  in  Hell 
At  your  simple  scheming  . . . 

In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

When  the  ghosts  are  fleeting. 

IV. 

You  to  place  a hand  in  his 
Like  an  honest  woman’s, 

You  that  lie  with  wasted  lung 
Waiting  for  your  summons  . . . 
In  the  night,  O the  night ! 

O the  deathwatch  beating ! 


There  will  come  a witness  soon 
Hard  to  be  confuted, 

All  the  world  will  hear  a voice 
Scream  you  are  polluted  . . . 

In  the  night!  O the  night, 

When  the  owls  are  wailing ! 

VI. 

Shame  and  marriage,  Shame  and 
marriage, 

Fright  and  foul  dissembling, 
Bantering  bridesman,  reddening 
priest, 

Tower  and  altar  trembling  . . . 

In  the  night,  O the  night, 

When  the  mind  is  failing ! 


VII. 

Mother,  dare  you  kill  your  child  ? 

How  your  hand  is  shaking ! 
Daughter  of  the  seed  of  Cain, 

What  is  this  you’re  taking  7 . . 0 
In  the  night,  O the  night, 

While  the  house  is  sleeping. 

VIII. 

Dreadful ! has  it  come  to  this, 

O unhappy  creature  1 
You  that  would  not  tread  on  a worn 
For  your  gentle  nature  . . . 

In  the  night,  O the  night, 

O the  night  of  weeping ! 

IX. 

Murder  would  not  veil  your  sin, 
Marriage  will  not  hide  it, 

Earth  and  Hell  will  brand  your  name 
Wretch  you  must  abide  it  . . . 

In  the  night,  O the  night, 

Long  before  the  dawning. 

x. 

Up,  get  up,  and  tell  him  all, 

Tell  him  you  were  lying ! 

Do  not  die  with  a lie  in  your  mouth 
You  that  know  you’re  dying  . . . 
In  the  night,  O the  night, 

While  the  grave  is  yawning. 

XI. 

No  — you  will  not  die  before, 

Tho’  you’ll  ne’er  be  stronger; 

You  will  live  till  that  is  born, 

Then  a little  longer  . . . 

In  the  night,  O the  night, 

While  the  Fiend  is  prowlingt 

XII. 

Death  and  marriage,  Death  and  ma; 
riage ! 

Funeral  hearses  rolling ! 

Black  with  bridal  favors  mixt! 
Bridal  bells  with  tolling ! . . . 

In  the  night,  O the  night, 

When  the  wolves  are  howling. 


HAPPY. 


671 


XIII. 

Jp,  get  up,  the  time  is  short, 
Tell  him  now  or  never! 
rell  him  all  before  you  die, 
Lest  you  die  for  ever  . . . 

In  the  night,  O the  night, 
Where  thefe’s  no  forgetting. 


XIV. 

Up  she  got,  and  wrote  him  all, 

All  her  tale  of  sadness, 

Blister'd  every  word  with  tears, 
And  eased  her  heart  of  madness  . 
In  the  night,  and  nigh  the  dawn. 
And  while  the  moon  was  setting 


HAPPY. 

THE  LEPER’S  BRIDE. 

I. 

Why  wail  you,  pretty  plover?  and  what  is  it  that  you  fear? 

Is  he  sick  your  mate  like  mine  ? have  you  lost  him,  is  he  fled? 
And  there  — the  heron  rises  from  his  watch  beside  the  mere, 

And  flies  above  the  leper’s  hut,  where*  lives  the  living-dead. 

ii. 

Come  back,  nor  let  me  know  it ! would  he  live  and  die  alone  ? 

And  has  he  not  forgiven  me  yet,  his  over-jealous  bride, 

Who  am,  and  was,  and  will  be  his,  his  own  and  only  own, 

To  share  his  living  death  with  him,  die  with  him  side  by  side  ? 

hi. 

Is  that  the  leper’s  hut  on  the  solitary  moor, 

Where  noble  Ulric  dwells  forlorn,  and  wears  the  leper’s  weed? 
The  door  is  open.  He ! is  he  standing  at  the  door, 

My  soldier  of  the  Cross  ? it  is  he  and  he  indeed ! 


IV. 

My  roses  — will  he  take  them  now  — mine,  his  — from  off  the  tree 
We  planted  both  together,  happy  in  our  marriage  morn  ? 

O God,  I could  blaspheme,  for  he  fought  Thy  fight  for  Thee, 

And  Thou  hast  made  him  leper  to  compass  him  with  scorn  — 

v. 

Hast  spared  the  flesh  of  thousands,  the  coward  and  the  base, 

And  set  a cruelle*r  mark  than  Cain’s  on  him,  the  good  and  brave! 
He  sees  me,  waves  me  from  him.  I will  front  him  face  to  face. 
You  need  not  wave  me  from  you.  I would  leap  into  your  grave. 

******** 

VI. 

My  warrior  of  the  Holy  Cross  and  of  the  conquering  sword, 

The  roses  that  you  cast  aside  — once  more  I bring  you  these. 

No  nearer  ? do  you  scorn  me  when  you  tell  me  O my  lord, 

You  would  not  mar  the  beauty  of  your  bride  with  your  disease. 


672 


HAPPY. 


VII. 

You  say  your  body  is  so  foul — -then  here  I stand  apart, 

Who  yearn  to  lay  my  loving  head  upon  your  leprous  breast. 
The  leper  plague  may  scale  my  skin  but  never  taint  my  heart; 
Your  body  is  not  foul  to  me,  and  body  is  foul  at  best. 

viti. 

I loved  you  first  when  young  and  fair,  but  now  I love  you  most; 

The  fairest  flesh  at  last  is  filth  on  which  the  worm  will  feast; 
This  poor  rib-grated  dungeon  of  the  holy  human  ghost, 

This  house  with  all  its  hateful  needs  no  cleaner  than  the  beast, 


This  coarse  diseaseful  creature  which  in  Eden  was  divine, 

This  Satan-haunted  ruin,  this  little  city  of  sewers, 

This  wall  of  solid  flesh  that  comes  between  your  soul  and  mine, 
Will  vanish  and  give  place  to  the  beauty  that  endures, 


The  beauty  that  endures  on  the  Spiritual  height, 

When  we  shall  stand  transfigured,  like  Christ  on  Hermon  hill, 
And  moving  each  to  music,  soul  in  soul  and  light  in  light, 

Shall  flash  thro’  one  another  in  a moment  as  we  will. 


XI. 

Foul ! foul ! the  word  was  yours  not  mine,  I worship  that  right  hand 
Which  fell'd  the  foes  before  you  as  the  woodman  fells  the  wood, 

And  sway'd  the  sword  that  lighten'd  back  the  sun  of  Holy  land, 

And  clove  the  Moslem  crescent  moon,  and  changed  it  into  blood. 

XII. 

And  once  I worshipt  all  too  well  this  creature  of  decay, 

For  Age  will  chink  the  face,  and  Death  will  freeze  the  supplest  limbs  — 

Yet  you  in  your  mid  manhood  — O the  grief  when  yesterday 
They  bore  the  Cross  before  you  to  the  chant  of  funeral  hymns. 

XIII. 

“Libera  me,  Domine  ! " you  sang  the  Psalm,  and  when 

The  Priest  pronounced  you  dead,  and  flung  the  mould  upon  your  feet, 

A beauty  came  upon  your  face,  not  that  of  living  men, 

But  seen  upon  the  silent  brow  when  life  has  ceased  to  beat. 

XIV. 

“Libera  nos,  Domine  " — you  knew  not  one  was  there 

Who  saw  you  kneel  beside  your  bier,  and  weeping  scarce  could  see; 

May  I come  a little  nearer,  I that  heard,  and  changed  the  prayer 
And  sang  the  married  “ nos  ” for  the  solitary  “ me.” 


HAPPY. 


673 


xv. 

My  beauty  marred  by  you  ? by  you!  so  be  it.  All  is  well 
If  I lose  it  and  myself  in  the  higher  beauty,  yours. 

My  beauty  lured  that  falcon  from  his  eyry  on  the  fell, 

Who  never  caught  one  gleam  of  the  beauty  which  endures  — 

XVI. 

The  Count  who  sought  to  snap  the  bond  that  link’d  us  life  to  life, 

Who  whisper’d  me  “your  Ulric  loves”  — a little  nearer  still  — 

He  hiss’d,  “Let  us  revenge  ourselves,  your  Ulric  woos  my  wife”  — 

A lie  by  which  he  thought  he  could  subdue  me  to  his  will. 

XVII. 

I knew  that  you  were  near  me  when  I let  him  kiss  my  brow ; 

Well,  he  kiss’d  me  on  the  lips,  I was  jealous,  anger’d,  vain, 

And  I meant  to  make  you  jealous.  Are  you  jealous  of  me  now  ? 

Your  pardon,  O my  love,  if  I ever  gave  you  pain. 

XVIII. 

You  never  once  accused  me,  but  I wept  alone,  and  sigh’d 
In  the  winter  of  the  Present  for  the  summer  of  the  Past ; 

That  icy  winter  silence  — how  it  froze  you  from  your  bride, 

Tho’  I made  one  barren  effort  to  break  it  at  the  last. 

XIX. 

I brought  you,  you  remember,  these  roses,  when  I knew 

You  were  parting  for  the  war,  and  you  took  them  tho’  you  frown’d ; 
You  frown’d  and  yet  you  kiss’d  them.  All  at  once  the  trumpet  blew, 
And  you  spurr’d  your  fiery  horse,  and  you  hurl’d  them  to  the  ground. 


xx. 

You  parted  for  the  Holy  War  without  a word  to  me, 

And  clear  myself  unask’d  — not  I.  My  nature  was  too  proud. 

And  him  I saw  but  once  again,  and  far  away  was  he, 

When  I was  praying  in  a storm  — the  crash  was  long  and  loud  — 

XXI. 

That  God  would  ever  slant  His  bolt  from  falling  on  your  head  — 

Then  I lifted  up  my  eyes,  he  was  coming  down  the  fell  — 

I clapt  my  hands.  The  sudden  fire  from  Heaven  had  dash’d  him  dead, 
And  sent  him  charr’d  and  blasted  to  the  deathless  fire  of  Hell. 

XXII. 

See,  I sinn’d  but  for  a moment.  I repented  and  repent, 

And  trust  myself  forgiven  by  the  God  to  whom  I kneel. 

A little  nearer?  Yes.  I shall  hardly  be  content 

Till  I be  leper  like  yourself,  my  love,  from  head  to  heel. 


674 


HAPPY. 


XXIII. 

0 foolish  dreams,  that  you,  that  I,  would  slight  our  marriage  oath : 

I held  you  at  that  moment  even  dearer  than  before ; 

Now  God  has  made  you  leper  in  His  loving  care  for  both, 

That  we  might  cling  together,  never  doubt  each  other  more. 

XXIV. 

The  Priest,  who  join’d  you  to  the  dead,  has  join’d  our  hands  of  old; 

If  man  and  wife  be  but  one  flesh,  let  mine  be  leprous  too, 

As  dead  from  all  the  human  race  as  if  beneath  the  mould; 

If  you  be  dead,  then  I am  dead,  who  only  live  for  you. 

XXV. 

Would  Earth  tho’  hid  in  cloud  not  be  follow’d  by  the  Moon  ? 

The  leech  forsake  the  dying  bed  for  terror  of  his  life  1 

The  shadow  leave  the  Substance  in  the  brooding  light  of  noon? 

Or  if  / had  been  the  leper  would  you  have  left  the  wife  ? 

XXVI. 

Not  take  them  ? Still  you  wave  me  off  — poor  roses  — must  I go  — 

I have  worn  them  year  by  year  — from  the  bush  we  both  had  set  — 

What  ? fling  them  to  you  ? — well  — that  were  hardly  gracious.  No! 
Your  plague  but  passes  by  the  touch.  A little  nearer  yet! 

XXVII. 

There,  there  ! he  buried  you,  the  Priest ; the  Priest  is  not  to  blame, 

He  joins  us  once  again,  to  his  either  office  true: 

1 thank  him.  I am  happy,  happy.  Kiss  me.  In  the  name 
Of  the  everlasting  God,  I will  live  and  die  with  you. 

[Dean  Milman  has  remarked  that  the  protection  and  care  afforded  by  the  Church  to  thi 
blighted  race  of  lepers  was  among  the  most  beautiful  of  its  offices  during  the  Middle  Ages 
The  leprosy  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  was  supposed  to  be  a legacy  of  tb< 
crusades,  but  was  in  all  probability  the  offspring  of  meagre  and  unwholesome  diet,  miserabl 
lodging  and  clothing,  physical  and  moral  degradation.  The  services  of  the  Church  in  th 
seclusion  of  these  unhappy  sufferers  were  most  affecting.  The  stern  duty  of  looking  t< 
the  public  welfare  is  tempered  with  exquisite  compassion  for  the  victims  of  this  loathsom 
disease.  The  ritual  for  the  sequestration  of  the  leprous  differed  little  from  the  buria 
service.  After  the  leper  had  been  sprinkled  with  holy  water,  the  priest  conducted  hir 
into  the  church,  the  leper  singing  the  psalm  “Libera  me  domine,”  and  the  crucifix  an< 
bearer  going  before.  In  the  church  a black  cloth  was  stretched  over  two  trestles  in  front  o 
the  altar,  and  the  leper  leaning  at  its  side  devoutly  heard  mass.  The  priest,  taking  up  a littl 
earth  in  his  cloak,  threw  it  on  one  of  the  leper’s  feet,  and  put  him  out  of  the  church,  if  it  di< 
not  rain  too  heavily;  took  him  to  his  hut  in  the  midst  of  the  fields,  and  then  uttered  th 
prohibitions:  “I  forbid  you  entering  the  church  ...  or  entering  the  company  of  others, 
forbid  you  quitting  your  home  without  your  leper’s  dress.”  He  concluded:  “Take  thi 
dress,  and  wear  it  in  token  of  humility;  take  these  gloves,  take  this  clapper,  as  a sign  tha 
you  are  forbidden  to  speak  to  any  one.  You  are  not  to  be  indignant  at  being  thus  separate' 
from  others,  and  as  to  your  little  wants,  good  people  will  provide  for  you,  and  God  will  no 
desert  you.”  Then  in  this  old  ritual  follow  these  sad  words:  “ When  it  shall  come  to  pas 
that  the  leper  shall  pass  out  of  this  world,  he  shall  be  buried  in  his  hut,  and  notin  the  church 
yard.”  At  first  there  was  a doubt  whether  wives  should  follow  their  husbands  who  had  beei 
leprous,  or  remain  in  the  world  and  marry  again.  The  Church  decided  that  the  marriage 
tie  was  indissoluble,  and  so  bestowed  on  these  unhappy  beings  this  immense  source  of  con 
solation.  With  a love  stronger  than  this  living  death,  lepers  were  followed  into  banishmen 
from  the  haunts  of  men  by  their  faithful  wives.  Readers  of  Sir  J.  Stephen’s  Essays  o i 
Ecclesiastical  Biography  will  recollect  the  description  of  the  founder  of  the  Franciscai 
order,  how,  controlling  his  involuntary  disgust,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  washed  the  feet  am 
dressed  the  sores  of  the  lepers,  once  at  least  reverently  applying  his  lips  to  their  wounds.  - 
Boucher- James.] 

This  ceremony  of  gwasi-burial  varied  considerably  at  different  times  and  in  different  places 
In  some  cases  a grave  was  dug,  and  the  leper’s  face  was  often  covered  during  the  service. 


TO  ULYSSES. 


675 


TO  ULYSSES. 

“Ulysses,”  the  title  of  a number  of  essays 
/ W.  G.  Palgrave.  He  died  at  Monte  Video 
;fore  seeing  either  this  volume  or  my 
>em. 

I. 

lysses,  much-experienced  man, 
Whose  eyes  have  known  this  globe 
of  ours, 

Her  Tribes  of  men,  and  trees,  and 
flowers, 

rom  Corrientes  to  Japan. 

ii. 

’o  you  that  bask  below  the  Line, 

I soaking  here  in  winter  wet  — 

The  century’s  three  strong  eights 
have  met 

'o  drag  me  down  to  seventy-nine. 
hi. 

n summer  if  I reach  my  day  — 

To  you,  yet  young,  who  breathe  the 
balm 

Of  summer- winters  by  the  palm 
knd  orange  grove  of  Paraguay, 

IV. 

tolerant  of  the  colder  time, 

Who  love  the  winter  woods,  to  trace 
On  paler  heavens  the  branching 
grace 

)f  leafless  elm,  or  naked  lime, 
v. 

Lnd  see  my  cedar  green,  and  there 
My  giant  ilex  keeping  leaf 
When  frost  is  keen  and  days  are 
brief  — 

)r  marvel  how  in  English  air 

VI. 

/Ty  yucca,  which  no  winter  quells, 
Altho’  the  months  have  scarce  be- 
gun, 

Has  push’d  toward  our  faintest  sun 
L spike  of  half-accomplish’d  bells  — 

VII. 

)r  watch  the  waving  pine  which  here 
The  warrior  of  Caprera  set,1 

1  Garibaldi  said  to  me,  alluding  to  his  bar- 

en  island,  “ I wish  I had  your  trees.” 


A name  that  earth  will  not  forget 
Till  earth  has  roll’d  her  latest  year  — 

VIII. 

I,  once  half-crazed  for  larger  light 
On  broader  zones  beyond  the  foam, 
But  chaining  fancy  now  at  home 
Among  the  quarried  downs  of  Wight, 

IX. 

Not  less  would  yield  full  thanks  to 
you 

Eor  your  rich  gift,  your  tale  of 
lands 

I know  not,1  your  Arabian  sands ; 
Your  cane,  your  palm,  tree-fern,  bam- 
boo, 

x. 

The  wealth  of  tropic  bower  and 
brake ; 

Your  Oriental  Eden-isles,2 
Where  man,  nor  only  Nature  smiles ; 
Your  wonder  of  the  boiling  lake  ;3 

XI. 

Phra-Chai,  the  Shadow  of  the  Best,4 
Phra-bat6  the  step;  your  Pontic 
coast ; 

Crag-cloister;6  Anatolian  Ghost;7 
Hong-Kong,8  Karnac,9  and  all  the 
rest. 

XII. 

Thro’  which  I follow’d  line  by  line 
Your  leading  hand,  and  came,  my 
friend, 

To  prize  your  various  book,  and 
send 

A gift  of  slenderer  value,  mine. 

1 The  tale  of  Nejd. 

2 The  Philippines. 

3 In  Dominica. 

4 The  shadow  of  the  Lord.  Certain  ob- 
scure markings  on  a rock  in  Siam,  which  ex- 
press the  image  of  Budda  to  the  Buddhist 
more  or  less  distinctly  according  to  his  faith 
and  his  moral  worth. 

5 The  footstep  of  the  Lord  on  anothei 
rock. 

6 The  monastery  of  Sumelas. 
i Anatolian  Spectre  stories. 

8 The  three  cities. 

9 Travels  in  Egypt. 


676 


TO  MARY  BOYLE. 


TO  MARY  BOYLE. 

WITH  THE  FOLLOWING  POEM. 

I. 

M Spring-flowers  ” ! While  you  still 
delay  to  take 

Your  leave  of  Town, 

Our  elmtree’s  ruddy-hearted  blossom- 
flake 

Is  fluttering  down. 

n. 

Be  truer  to  your  promise.  There  ! I 
heard 

One  cuckoo  call. 

Be  needle  to  the  magnet  of  your  word, 

Nor  wait,  till  all 

m. 

Our  vernal  bloom  from  every  vale  and 
plain 

And  garden  pass, 

And  all  the  gold  from  each  laburnum 
chain 

Drop  to  the  grass. 

IV. 

Is  memory  with  your  Marian  gone  to 
rest, 

Dead  with  the  dead  1 

For  ere  she  left  us,  when  we  met,  you 
prest 

My  hand,  and  said 
v. 

“I  come  with  your  spring-flowers.” 
You  came  not,  friend; 

My  birds  would  sing, 

You  heard  not.  Take  then  this  spring- 
flower  I send, 

This  song  of  spring, 

YI. 

Found  yesterday  — forgotten  mine 
own  rhyme 

By  mine  old  self, 

As  1 shall  be  forgotten  by  old  Time, 

Laid  on  the  shelf  — 


VII. 

A rhyme  that  flower’d  betwixt  the 
whitening  sloe 

And  kingcup  blaze, 

And  more  than  half  a hundred  years 
ago, 

In  rick-fire  days, 

VIII. 

When  Dives  loathed  the  times,  and 
paced  his  land 

In  fear  of  worse, 

And  sanguine  Lazarus  felt  a vacant 
hand 

Fill  with  his  purse. 

IX. 

For  lowly  minds  were  madden’d  to 
the  height 

By  tonguester  tricks, 

And  once  — I well  remember  that  red 
night 

When  thirty  ricks, 

x. 

All  flaming,  made  an  English  home- 
stead Hell  — 

These  hands  of  mine 

Have  helpt  to  pass  a bucket  from  the 
well 

Along  the  line, 

XI. 

When  this  bare  dome  had  not  begun 
to  gleam 

Thro’  youthful  curls, 

And  you  were  then  a lover’s  fairy 
dream, 

His  girl  of  girls  ; 

XII. 

And  you,  that  now  are  lonely,  and 
with  Grief 

Sit  face  to  face, 

Might  find  a flickering  glimmer  of 
relief 

In  change  of  place. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  SPRING. 


077 


XIII. 

T'hat  use  to  brood  ? this  life  of  min- 
gled pains 
And  joys  to  me, 

espite  of  every  Faith  and  Creed, 
remains 
The  Mystery. 

XIV. 

et  golden  youth  bewail  the  friend, 
the  wife, 

For  ever  gone. 

e dreams  of  that  long  walk  thro’ 
desert  life 
Without  the  one. 

xv. 

he  silver  year  should  cease  to  mourn 
and  sigh  — 

Not  long  to  wait  — 

3 close  are  we,  dear  Mary,  you  and 

I 

To  that  dim  gate. 

XVI. 

ake,  read  ! and  be  the  faults  your 
Poet  makes 
Or  many  or  few, 

e rests  content,  if  his  young  music 
wakes 

A wish  in  you 

XVII. 

o change  our  dark  Queen-citv,  all 
her  realm 

Of  sound  and  smoke, 

or  his  clear  heaven,  and  these  few 
lanes  of  elm 
And  whispering  oak. 


[TIE  PROGRESS  OF  SPRING. 

i. 

he  groundflame  of  the  crocus  breaks 
the  mould, 

Fair  Spring  slides  hither  o’er  the 
Southern  sea, 

avers  on  her  thin  stem  the  snow- 
drop cold 


That  trembles  not  to  kisses  of  the 
bee : 

Come  Spring,  for  now  from  all  the 
dripping  eaves 

The  spear  of  ice  has  wept  itself 
away, 

And  hour  by  hour  unfolding  wood' 
bine  leaves 

O’er  his  uncertain  shadow  droops 
the  day. 

She  comes!  The  loosen’d  rivulets 
run ; 

The  frost-bead  melts  upon  her 
golden  hair ; 

Her  mantle,  slowly  greening  in  the 
Sun, 

Now  wraps  her  close,  now  arching 
leaves  her  bare 

To  breaths  of  balmier  air ; 

ii. 

Up  leaps  the  lark,  gone  wild  to  wel- 
come her, 

About  her  glance  the  tits,  and 
shriek  the  jays, 

Before  her  skims  the  jubilant  wood- 
pecker, 

The  linnet’s  bosom  blushes  at  her 
gaze, 

While  round  her  brows  a woodland 
culver  flits, 

Watching  her  large  light  eyes  and 
gracious  looks, 

And  in  her  open  palm  a halcyon  sits 

Patient  — the  secret  splendor  of 
the  brooks. 

Come  Spring!  She  comes  on  waste 
and  wood, 

On  farm  and  field  : but  enter  also 
here, 

Diffuse  thyself  at  will  thro’  all  my 
blood, 

And,  tho’  thy  violet  sicken  into  sere, 

Lodge  with  me  all  the  year ! 

hi. 

Once  more  a downy  drift  against  the 
brakes, 

Self-darken’d  in  the  sky,  descend- 
ing slow ! 

But  gladly  see  I thro’  the  wavering 
flakes 


678 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  SPRING. 


Yon  blanching  apricot  like  snow  in 
snow. 

These  will  thine  eyes  not  brook  in 
forest-paths, 

On  their  perpetual  pine,  nor  round 
the  beech ; 

They  fuse  themselves  to  little  spicy 
baths, 

Solved  in  the  tender  blushes  of  the 
peach ; 

They  lose  themselves  and  die 

On  that  new  life  that  gems  the 
hawthorn  line; 

Thy  gay  lent-lilies  wave  and  put 
them  by, 

And  out  once  more  In  varnish'd 
glory  shine 

Thy  stars  of  celandine. 

iv. 

She  floats  across  the  hamlet.  Heaven 
lours, 

But  in  the  tearful  splendor  of  her 
smiles 

I see  the  slowly-thickening  chestnut 
towers 

Fill  out  the  spaces  by  the  barren 
tiles. 

Now  past  her  feet  the  swallow  cir- 
cling flies, 

A clamorous  cuckoo  stoops  to  meet 
her  hand ; 

Her  light  makes  rainbows  in  my 
closing  eyes, 

I hear  a charm  of  song  thro’  all 
the  land. 

Come,  Spring ! She  comes,  and  Earth 
is  glad 

To  roll  her  North  below  thy  deep- 
ening dome, 

But  ere  thy  maiden  birk  be  wholly 
clad, 

And  these  low  bushes  dip  their 
twigs  in  foam, 

Make  all  true  hearths  thy  home, 
v. 

Across  my  garden ! and  the  thicket 
stirs, 

The  fountain  pulses  high  in  sunnier 
jets, 


The  blackcap  warbles,  and  the  turtle 
purrs, 

The  starling  claps  his  tiny  casta 
nets. 

Still  round  her  forehead  wheels  the 
woodland  dove, 

And  scatters  on  her  throat  the 
sparks  of  dew, 

The  kingcup  fills  her  footprint,  and 
above 

Broaden  the  glowing  isles  of  ver 
nal  blue. 

Hail  ample  presence  of  a Queen, 

Bountiful,  beautiful,  apparell’d  gay, 

Whose  mantle,  every  shade  of  glanc 
ing  green, 

Flies  back  in  fragrant  breezes  t( 
display 

A tunic  white  as  May  ! * 

vi. 

She  whispers,  “From  the  South 
bring  you  balm, 

For  on  a tropic  mountain  was 
born, 

While  some  dark  dweller  by  the  coco 
palm 

Watch’d  my  far  meadow  zonec 
with  airy  morn  ; 

From  under  rose  a muffled  moan  o 
floods ; 

I sat  beneath  a solitude  of  snow ; 

There  no  one  came,  the  turf  wa 
fresh,  the  woods 

Plunged  gulf  on  gulf  thro’  all  thei 
vales  below. 

I saw  beyond  their  silent  tops 

The  steaming  marshes  of  the  scar 
let  cranes, 

The  slant  seas  leaning  on  the  man 
grove  copse, 

And  summer  basking  in  the  sultr 
plains 

About  a land  of  canes ; 

VII. 

“ Then  from  my  vapor-girdle  soai 
ing  forth 

I scaled  the  buoyant  highway  * 
the  birds. 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM. 


679 


jid  drank  the  dews  and  drizzle  of 
the  North, 

That  I might  mix  with  men,  and 
hear  their  words 

)n  pathway’d  plains ; for  — while  my 
hand  exults 

Within  the  bloodless  heart  of  lowly 
flowers 

?o  work  old  laws  of  Love  to  fresh 
results, 

Thro’  manifold  effect  of  simple 
powers  — 

too  would  teach  the  man 
Beyond  the  darker  hour  to  see  the 
bright, 

?hat  his  fresh  life  may  close  as  it 
began, 

The  still-fulfilling  promise  of  a 
light 

Narrowing  the  bounds  of  night.” 
yin. 

>o  wed  thee  with  my  soul,  that  I may 
mark 

The  coming  year's  great  good  and 
varied  ills, 

Did  new  developments,  whatever 
spark 

Be  struck  from  out  the  clash  of 
warring  wills ; 

)r  whether,  since  our  nature  cannot 
rest, 

i The  smoke  of  war’s  volcano  burst 
again 

?rom  hoary  deeps  that  belt  the 
changeful  West, 

Old  Empires,  dwellings  of  the 
kings  of  men ; 

)r  should  those  fail,  that  hold  the 
jj;  helm, 

While  the  long  day  of  knowledge 
l grows  and  warms, 

Did  in  the  heart  of  this  most  ancient 
realm 

A hateful  voice  be  utter’d,  and 
alarms 

Sounding  “ To  arms  ! to  arms  ! ” 


1 simpler,  saner  lesson  might  he 
learn 


Who  reads  thy  gradual  process, 
Holy  Spring. 

Thy  leaves  possess  the  season  in  their 
turn, 

• And  in  their  time  thy  warblers  rise 
on  wing. 

How  surely  glidest  thou  from  March 
to  May, 

And  changest,  breathing  it,  the 
sullen  wind, 

Thy  scope  of  operation,  day  by  day, 

Larger  and  fuller,  like  the  human 
mind ! 

Thy  warmths  from  bud  to  bud 

Accomplish  that  blind  model  in  the 
seed, 

And  men  have  hopes,  which  race  the 
restless  blood, 

That  after  many  changes  may  suc- 
ceed 

Life,  which  is  Life  indeed. 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM, 


0 young  Mariner, 

You  from  the  haven 
Under  the  sea-cliff, 

You  that  are  watching 
The  gray  Magician 
With  eyes  of  wonder, 

1 am  Merlin, 

And  I am  dying, 

I am  Merlin 

Who  follow  The  Gleam. 

n. 

Mighty  the  Wizard 
Who  found  me  at  sunrise 
Sleeping,  and  woke  me 
And  learn’d  me  Magic ! 
Great  the  Master, 

And  sweet  the  Magic, 
When  over  the  valley, 

In  early  summers, 

Over  the  mountain, 

On  human  faces, 

And  all  around  me, 
Moving  to  melody, 
Floated  The  Gleam. 


580 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM. . 


hi. 

Once  at  the  croak  of  a Raven 
who  crost  it, 

A barbarous  people, 

Blind  to  the  magic, 

And  deaf  to  the  melody, 

Snarl’d  at  and  cursed  me. 

A demon  vext  me, 

The  light  retreated, 

The  landskip  darken’d, 

The  melody  deaden’d, 

The  Master  whisper’d 
“ Follow  The  Gleam.” 

IV. 

Then  to  the  melody, 

Over  a wilderness 
Gliding,  and  glancing  at 
Elf  of  the  woodland, 

Gnome  of  the  cavern, 

Griffin  and  Giant, 

And  dancing  of  Fairies 
In  desolate  hollows, 

And  wraiths  of  the  mountain, 
And  rolling  of  dragons 
By  warble  of  water, 

Or  cataract  music 
Of  falling  torrents, 

Flitted  The  Gleam. 

v. 

Down  from  the  mountain 
And  over  the  level, 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 
Silent  river, 

Silvery  willow, 

Pasture  and  plowland, 

Horses  and  oxen, 

Innocent  maidens, 

Garrulous  children, 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner, 

And  rough-ruddy  faces 
Of  lowly  labor, 

Slided  The  Gleam.  — 

VI. 

Then,  with  a melody 
Stronger  and  statelier, 

Led  me  at  length 
To  the  city  and  palace 


Of  Arthur  the  king ; 

Touch’d  at  the  golden 
Cross  of  the  churches, 

Flash’d  on  the  Tournament, 
Flicker’d  and  bicker’d 
From  helmet  to  helmet, 

And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  The  Gleam. 

VII. 

Clouds  and  darkness 
Closed  upon  Camelot; 

Arthur  had  vanish’d 
I knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me, 

And  cannot  die ; 

For  out  of  the  darkness 
Silent  and  slowly 
The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  i 
wintry  glimmer 
On  icy  fallow 
And  faded  forest, 

Drew  to  the  valley 
Named  of  the  shadow, 

And  slowly  brightening 
Out  of  the  glimmer, 

And  slowly  moving  again  to  s 
melody 

Yearningly  tender, 

Fell  on  the  shadow, 

No  longer  a shadow, 

But  clothed  with  The  Gleam. 

VIII. 

And  broader  and  brighter 
The  Gleam  flying  onward, 

Wed  to  the  melody, 

Sang  thro’  the  world  ; 

And  slower  and  fainter, 

Old  and  weary, 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I saw,  whenever 
In  passing  it  glanced  upon 
Hamlet  or  city, 

That  under  the  Crosses 
The  dead  man’s  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock, 

Would  break  into  blossom 
And  so  to  the  land’s 

Last  limit  I came 

And  can  no  longer. 


ROMNEY'S  REMORSE . 


68) 


But  die  rejoicing, 

For  thro’  the  Magic 
Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 
There  on  the  border 
Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 
Hovers  The  Gleam. 

IX. 

Not  of  the  sunlight, 

Not  of  the  moonlight, 

Not  of  the  starlight! 

O young  Mariner, 

Down  to  the  haven, 

Call  your  companions, 
Launch  your  vessel, 

And  crowd  your  canvas, 

And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin, 

After  it,  follow  it, 

Follow  The  Gleam. 


ROMNEY’S  REMORSE. 

“ I read  Hayley’s  Life  of  Romney  the 
)ther  day  — Romney  wanted  but  education 
md  reading  to  make  him  a very  fine  painter; 
Hit  his  ideal  was  not  high  nor  fixed.  How 
ouching  is  the  clos^  of  his  lif  ! He  married 
it  nineteen,  and  because  Sir  Joshua  and 
ithers  had  said  that  ‘ marriage  spoilt  an 
irtist’  almost  immediately  left  his  wife  in 
he  North  and  scarce  saw  her  till  the  end  of 
iis  life;  when  old,  nearly  mad  and  quite 
lesolate,  he  went  back  to  her  and  she  re- 
vived him  and  nursed  him  till  he  died. 
This  quiet  act  of  hers  is  worth  all  Romney’s 
pictures!  even  as  a matter  of  Art,  I am 
ure.”  ( Letters  and  Literary  Remains  of 
Edward  Fitzgerald , vol.  i.) 

‘ Beat,  little  heart  — I give  you  this 
and  this  ” — 

Who  are  you  ? What ! the  Lady 
Hamilton  ? 

xood,  I am  never  weary  painting  you. 
To  sit  once  more  ? Cassandra,  Hebe, 
Joan, 

)r  spinning  at  your  wheel  beside  the 
vine  — 

bacchante,  what  you  will;  and  if  I 
fail 

Co  conjure  and  concentrate  into  form 
^nd  color  all  you  are,  the  fault  is  less 


In  me  than  Art.  What  Artist  ever 
yet 

Could  make  pure  light  live  on  the 
canvas?  Art! 

Why  should  I so  disrelish  that  short 
word  ? 

Where  am  I ? snow  on  all  the  hills  ! 
so  hot, 

So  fever’d!  never  colt  would  more 
delight 

To  roll  himself  in  meadow  grass 
than  I 

To  wallow  in  that  winter  of  the  hills. 

Nurse,  were  you  hired  ? or  came  of 
your  own  will 

To  wait  on  one  so  broken,  so  forlorn  1 

Have  I not  met  you  somewhere  long 
ago  ? 

I am  all  but  sure  I have — in  Kendal 
church  — 

0 yes ! I hired  you  for  a season 

there, 

And  then  we  parted;  but  you  look  so 
kind 

That  you  will  not  deny  my  sultry 
throat 

One  draught  of  icy  water.  There  — 
you  spill 

The  drops  upon  my  forehead.  Your 
hand  shakes. 

1 am  ashamed,,  I am  a trouble  to 

you, 

Could  kneel  for  your  forgiveness. 
Are  they  tears? 

For  me  — they  do  me  too  much  grace 
— for  me  ? 

O Mary,  Mary ! 

Vexing  you  with  words! 

Words  only,  born  of  fever,  or  the 
fumes 

Of  that  dark  opiate  dose  you  gave 
me,  — words, 

Wild  babble.  I have  stumbled  back 
again 

Into  the  common  day,  the  sounder 
self. 

God  stay  me  there,  if  only  for  your 
sake, 

The  truest,  kindliest,  noblest-hearted 
wife 

That  ever  wore  a Christian  marriage 
ring. 


682 


ROMNEY'S  REMORSE . 


My  curse  upon  the  Master’s  apo- 
thegm, 

That  wife  and  children  drag  an  Artist 
down ! 

This  seem'd  my  lodestar  in  the 
Heaven  of  Art, 

And  lured  me  from  the  household 
fire  on  earth. 

To  you  my  days  have  been  a life-long 
lie, 

Grafted  on  half  a truth,  and  tho’  you 
say 

“ Take  comfort,  you  have  won  the 
Painter’s  fame;” 

The  best  in  me  that  sees  the  worst  in 
me, 

And  groans  to  see  it,  finds  no  com- 
fort there. 

What  fame  ? I am  not  Raphael, 
Titian  — no 

Nor  even  a Sir  Joshua,  some  will  cry. 

Wrong  there!  The  painter’s  fame? 
but  mine,  that  grew 

Blown  into  glittering  by  the  popular 
breath, 

May  float  awhile  beneath  the  sun, 
may  roll 

The  rainbow  hues  of  heaven  about 
it  — 

There ! 

The  color’d  bubble  bursts  above  the 
abyss 

Of  Darkness,  utter  Lethe. 

Is  it  so  ? 

Her  sad  eyes  plead  for  my  own  fame 
with  me 

To  make  it  dearer. 

Look,  the  sun  has  risen 

To  flame  along  another  dreary  day. 

Your  hand.  How  bright  you  keep 
your  marriage-ring! 

Raise  me.  I thank  you. 

Has  your  opiate  then 

Bred  this  black  mood  ? or  am  I con- 
scious, more 

Than  other  Masters,  of  the  chasm 
between 

Work  and  Ideal  ? Or  does  the  gloom 
of  Age 


And  suffering  cloud  the  height  I 
stand  upon 

Even  from  myself  ? stand?  stood  . . . 
no  more. 

And  yet 

The  world  would  lose,  if  such  a wife 
as  you 

Should  vanish  unrecorded.  Might  I 
crave 

One  favor?  I am  bankrupt  of  all 
claim 

On  your  obedience,  and  my  strongest 
wish 

Falls  flat  before  your  least  unwilling- 
ness. 

Still  would  you  — if  it  please  you  — 
sit  to  me  ? 

I dream’d  last  night  of  that  clear 
summer  noon, 

When  seated  on  a rock,  and  foot  to 
foot 

- With  your  own  shadow  in  the  placid 
lake, 

You  claspt  our  infant  daughter,  heart 
to  heart. 

I had  been  among  the  hills,  and 
brought  you  down 

A length  of  staghorn-moss,  and  this 
you  twined 

About  her  cap.  I see  the  picture  yet 

Mother  and  child.  A sound  from  fai 
away, 

No  louder  than  a bee  among  tin 
flowers, 

A fall  of  water  lull’d  the  noon  asleep. 

You  still’d  it  for  the  moment  with  ; 
song 

Which  often  echo’d  in  me,  while 
stood 

Before  the  great  Madonna-master 
pieces 

Of  ancient  Art  in  Paris,  or  in  Rome 
Mary,  my  crayons!  if  I can,  I wil 

You  should  have  been  — I might  hav 
made  you  once, 

Had  I but  known  you  as  I know  yo 
now  — 

The  true  Alcestis  of  the  time.  Yon 
song  — 

Sit,  listen ! I remember  it,  a proot 

That  I — even  I — at  times  remen 

i ber’d  you «. 


ROMNEY'S  REMORSE . 


683 


“ Beat  upon  mine,  little  heart ! beat, 
beat ! 

Beat  upon  mine  ! you  are  mine,  my 
sweet ! 

All  mine  from  your  pretty  blue  eyes 
to  your  feet, 

My  sweet.” 

(ess  profile!  turn  to  me  — three- 
quarter  face. 

“ Sleep,  little  blossom,  my  honey, 
my  bliss  ! 

For  I give  you  this,  and  I give  you 
this ! 

And  I blind  your  pretty  blue  eyes 
with  a kiss ! 

Sleep ! ” 

'oo  early  blinded  by  the  kiss  of 
death  — 

" Father  and  Mother  will  watch 
you  grow  ” — 

ou  watch’d,  not  I,  she  did  not  grow, 
she  died. 

“ Father  and  Mother  will  watch 
you  grow, 

And  gather  the  roses  whenever 
they  blow, 

And  find  the  white  heather  wherever 
you  go, 

My  sweet.” 

ih,  my  white  heather  only  grows  in 
heaven 

iV'ith  Milton’s  amaranth.  There, 
there,  there  ! a child 

lad  shamed  me  at  it  — Down,  you 
idle  tools, 

tampt  into  dust — tremulous,  all 
awry, 

durr’d  like  a landskip  in  a ruffled 
pool,  — 

!ot  one  stroke  firm.  This  Art,  that 
harlot-like 

educed  me  from  you,  leaves  me 
harlot-like, 

^ho  love  her  still,  and  whimper, 
impotent 

o win  her  back  before  I die  — and 
then  — 

i 'hen,  in  the  loud  world’s  bastard 
judgment-day, 


One  truth  will  damn  me  with  the 
mindless  mob, 

Who  feel  no  touch  of  my  temptation, 
more 

More  than  all  the  myriad  lies,  that 
blacken  round 

The  corpse  of  every  man  that  gains  a 
name ; 

“ This  model  husband,  this  fine  Art- 
ist”! Fool, 

What  matters  ? Six  foot  deep  of 
burial  mould 

Will  dull  their  comments!  Ay,  but 
when  the  shout 

Of  His  descending  peals  from  Heaven, 
and  throbs 

Thro*  earth,  and  all  her  graves,  if  He 
should  ask 

“ Why  left  you  wife  and  children  ? 
for  my  sake, 

According  to  my  word  1 ” and  I replied 

" Nay,  Lord,  for  Art  ” why,  that  would 
sound  so  mean 

That  all  the  dead,  who  wait  the  doom 
of  Hell 

For  bolder  sins  than  mine,  adulteries, 

Wife-murders,  — nay,  the  ruthless 
Mussulman 

Who  flings  his  bowstrung  Harem  in 
the  sea, 

Would  turn,  and  glare  at  me,  and 
point  and  jeer, 

And  gibber  at  the  worm,  who,  living, 
made 

The  wife  of  wives  a widow-bride,  and 
lost 

Salvation  for  a sketch. 

I am  wild  again ! 

The  coals  of  fire  you  heap  upon 
head 

Have  crazed  me.  Someone  knocking 
there  without  ? 

No!  Will  my  Indian  brother  come? 
to  find 

Me  or  my  coffin  ? Should  I know  the 
man  ? 

This  worn-out  Reason  dying  in  her 
house 

May  leave  the  window’s  blinded,  and 
if  so, 

Bid  him  farewell  for  me,  and  tell 
him  — 


684 


PARNA  SS  US. 


Hope  ! 

I hear  a death-bed  Angel  whisper 
“ Hope.” 

“ The  miserable  have  no  medicine 

But  only  Hope ! ” He  said  it  . . . 
in  the  play. 

His  crime  was  of  the  senses ; of  the 
mind 

Mine  ; worse,  cold,  calculated. 

Tell  my  son  — 

O let  me  lean  my  head  upon  your 

breast. 


“ Beat  little  heart  ” on  this  fool  brain 
of  mine. 

I once  had  friends  — and  manv — 
none  like  you. 

I love  you  more  than  when  we  mar- 
ried. Hope ! 

O yes,  I hope,  or  fancy  that,  perhaps, 

Human  forgiveness  touches  heaven, 
and  thence  — 

For  you  forgive  me,  you  are  sure  of 
that  — 

Reflected, sends  a light  on  the  forgiven. 


PARNASSUS. 

Exegi  monuraentum  . . . 

Quod  non  . . . 

Poesit  diruere  . . . 

. . . innumerabilis. 

Annorum  series  et  fuga  temporuw. — Horace. 

I. 

What  be  those  crown'd  forms  high  over  the  sacred  fountain  ? 

Bards,  that  the  mighty  Muses  have  raised  to  the  heights  of  the  mountain, 
And  over  the  flight  of  the  Ages ! O Goddesses,  help  me  up  thither ! 
Lightning  may  shrivel  the  laurel  of  Caesar,  but  mine  would  not  wither. 
Steep  is  the  mountain,  but  you,  you  will  help  me  to  overcome  it, 

And  stand  with  my  head  in  the  zenith,  and  roll  my  voice  from  the  summit 
Sounding  forever  and  ever  thro'  Earth  and  her  listening  nations. 

And  mixt  with  the  great  Sphere-music  of  stars  and  of  constellations. 

ii. 

What  be  those  two  shapes  high  over  the  sacred  fountain, 

Taller  than  all  the  Muses,  and  huger  than  all  the  mountain  ? 

On  those  two  known  peaks  they  stand  ever  spreading  and  heightening; 
Poet,  that  evergreen  laurel  is  blasted  by  more  than  lightning ! 

Look,  in  their  deep  double  shadow  the  crown’d  ones  all  disappearing  > 

Sing  like  a bird  and  be  happy,  nor  hope  for  a deathless  hearing! 

Sounding  forever  and  ever?  ” pass  on!  the  sight  confuses  — 

These  are  Astronomy  and  Geology,  terrible  Muses  1 

hi. 

If  the  lips  were  touch'd  with  fire  from  off  a pure  Pierian  altar, 

Th o’  their  music  here  be  mortal  need  the  singer  greatly  care  ? 

Other  songs  for  other  worlds!  the  fire  within  him  would  not  falter: 

Let  the  golden  Iliad  vanish,  Homer  here  is  Homer  there. 


FAR  — FAR  — A WA  Y. 


685 


BY  AN  EVOLUTIONIST. 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a brute  to  the  soul  of  a man, 

And  the  man  said  “ Am  I your  debtor?  ” 

^nd  the  Lord  — “ Not  yet : but  make  it  as  clean  as  you  can, 

And  then  I will  let  you  a better.” 

i. 

!f  my  body  come  from  brutes,  my  soul  uncertain,  or  a fable, 

Why  not  bask  amid  the  senses  while  the  sun  of  morning  shines, 
the  finer  brute  rejoicing  in  my  hounds,  and  in  my  stable, 

Youth  and  Health,  and  birth  and  wealth,  and  choice  of  women  and  of  wines  ? 

ii. 

Vhat  hast  thou  done  for  me,  grim  Old  Age,  save  breaking  my  bones  on  the 
rack  ? 

Would  I had  past  in  the  morning  that  looks  so  bright  from  afar! 

OLD  AGE. 

Done  for  thee  ? starved  the  wild  beast  that  was  linkt  with  thee  eighty  years 
back. 

Less  weight  now  for  the  ladder-of-heaven  that  hangs  on  a star. 

i. 

f my  body  come  from  brutes,  tho’  somewhat  finer  than  their  own, 

I am  heir,  and  this  my  kingdom.  Shall  the  royal  voice  be  mute  ? 

*o,  but  if  the  rebel  subject  seek  to  drag  me  from  the  throne, 

Hold  the  sceptre,  Human  Soul,  and  rule  thy  Province  of  the  brute. 

i ”• 

. have  climb’d  to  the  snows  of  Age,  and  I gaze  at  a field  in  the  Past, 

Where  I sank  with  the  body  at  times  in  the  sloughs  of  a low  desire, 
lut  I hear  no  yelp  of  the  beast,  and  the  Man  is  quiet  at  last 
As  he  stands  on  the  heights  of  his  life  with  a glimpse  of  a height  that  it 
higher. 


FAR  — FAR  — AWAY. 

(for  music.) 

Vhat  sight  so  lured  him  thro’  the 
fields  he  knew 

^s  where  earth’s  green  stole  into 
heaven’s  own  hue, 

Far  — far  — away  1 

Yhat  sound  was  dearest  in  his  native 
dells  ? 

?he  mellow  lin-lan-lone  of  evening 
bells 

Far  - — far  — away. 


What  vague  world-whisper,  mystic 
pain  or  joy, 

Thro’  those  three  words  would  haunt 
him  when  a boy 

Far  — far  — away  ? 

A whisper  from  his  dawn  of  life  1 a 
breath 

From  some  fair  dawn  beyond  the 
doors  of  death 

Far  — far  — away  ? 

Far,  far,  how  far  ? from  o’er  the 
gates  of  Birth, 

The  faint  horizons,  all  the  bounds  of 
earth, 

Far  — far  — away  ? 


686 


POLITICS  — THE  SNO  WDR  OP. 


What  charm  in  words,  a charm  no 
words  could  give  ? 

O dying  words,  can  Music  make  you 
live 

Far  — far  — away  7 


As  this  red  rose,  which  on  our  terrace  j 
here 

Glows  in  the  blue  of  fifty  mile? 
away. 


THE  PLAY. 


POLITICS. 

We  move,  the  wheel  must  always 
move, 

Nor  always  on  the  plain, 

And  if  we  move  to  such  a goal 

As  Wisdom  hopes  to  gain, 

Then  you  that  drive,  and  know  your 
Craft, 

Will  firmly  hold  the  rein, 

Nor  lend  an  ear  to  random  cries, 

Or  you  may  drive  in  vain, 

For  some  cry  “ Quick  ” and  some  cry 
“ Slow,” 

But,  while  the  hills  remain, 

IJp  hill  “Too-slow”  will  need  the 
whip, 

Down  hill  “ Too-quick  ” the  chain. 


BEAUTIFUL  CITY. 

Beautiful  city,  the  centre  and  crater 
of  European  confusion, 

O you  with  your  passionate  shriek 
for  the  rights  of  an  equal  hu- 
manity, 

How  often  your  Re-volution  has 
proven  but  E-volution 
Roll’d  again  back  on  itself  in  the 
tides  of  a civic  insanity ! 


THE  ROSES  ON  THE  TERRACE. 

Rose,  on  this  terrace  fifty  years  ago, 

When  I was  in  my  June,  you  in 
your  May, 

Two  words,  “ My  Rose  ” set  all  your 
face  aglow, 

And  now  that  I am  white,  and  you 
are  gray, 

That  blush  of  fifty  years  ago,  my 
dear, 

Blooms  in  the  Past,  but  close  to 
me  to-day 


Act  first,  this  Earth,  a stage  so 
gloom’d  with  woe 
You  all  but  sicken  at  the  shifting 
scenes. 

And  yet  be  patient.  Our  Play  wright 
may  show 

In  some  fifth  Act  what  this  wild 
Drama  means. 


ON  ONE  WHO  AFFECTED  AN 
EFFEMINATE  MANNER. 

While  man  and  woman  still  are  in 
complete,  ' 

I prize  that  soul  where  man  an< 


woman  meet, 

Which  types  all  Nature’s  male  ani 
female  plan, 

But,  friend,  man-woman 
woman-man. 

is  no 

TO  ONE  WHO  RAN 
THE  ENGLISH. 

DOWx 

You  make  our  faults  too  gross,  an< 
thence  maintain 

Our  darker  future.  May  your  fear 
be  vain  ! 

At  times  the  small  black  fly  upo 
the  pane 

May  seem  the  black  ox  of  the  dh 
tant  plain. 


THE  SNOWDROP. 

Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid, 

Ever  as  of  old  time, 
Solitary  firstling, 

Coming  in  the  cold  time, 
Prophet  of  the  gay  time, 
Prophet  of  the  May  time, 
Prophet  of  the  roses, 
Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid! 


THE  THROSTLE—  CROSSING  THE  BAR . 


THE  THROSTLE. 

4 Summer  is  coming,  summer  is 
coming. 

I know  it,  I know  it,  I know  it. 

Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again, 
love  again,” 

Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Mng  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 

‘New,  new,  new,  new!”  Is  it  then 
so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  ? 

‘Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again, 
young  again,” 

Never  a prophet  so  crazy ! 

\nd  hardly  a daisy  as  yet,  little 
friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a daisy. 

‘ Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy 
year!” 

O warble  unchidden,  unbidden  ! 

Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my 
dear, 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 


THE  OAK. 
Live  thy  Life* 
Young  and  old, 
Like  yon  oak, 
Bright  in  spring, 
Living  gold ; 

Summer-rich 
Then;  and  then 
Autumn-changed, 
Soberer-hued 
Gold  again. 

All  his  leaves 
Fall’n  at  length. 
Look,  he  stands, 
Trunk  and  bough, 
Naked  strength. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

W.  G.  WARE. 

Farewell,  whose  like  cn  earth  I 
shall  not  find, 

Whose  Faith  and  Work  were  bells 
of  full  accord, 

My  friend,  the  most  unworldly  of 
mankind, 

Most  generous  of  all  Ultramon- 
tanes,  Ward, 

How  subtle  at  tierce  and  quart  of 
mind  with  mind, 

How  loyal  in  the  following  of  thy 
Lord ! 


CROSSING  THE  BAR. 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 

And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the 
bar, 

When  I put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a tide  as  moving  seems 
asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 

When  that  which  drew  from  out  the 
boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  fare- 
well, 

When  I embark ; 

For  tho*  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time 
and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

I hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I have  crost  the  b&r. 


NOTES. 


To  the  Queen , p.  1. 

irst  printed  in  the  seventh  edition  of 
myson’s  Poems , 1851.  A defective 
iza,  relating  to  the  Crystal  Palace 
libit  ion,  was  omitted  in  later  edi- 
ts : — 

le  brought  a vast  design  to  pass 
When  Europe  and  the  scattered  ends 
Of  our  fierce  world  did  meet  as  friends 
nd  brethren,  in  her  halls  of  glass.” 

ther  changes  were  made  in  the  text. 
>ther  version  of  To  the  Queen , in 
teen  stanzas,  was  published  in 
es’s  Growth  of  the  Idylls  of  the 
ig,  1895,  pp.  152-54.  Tennyson 
i appointed  poet  laureate  in  1850, 
succeed  Wordsworth. 

Claribel , p.  3. 

irst  printed  in  Poems , chiefly  Lyri- 
1830.  This  poem  is  peculiarly  Ten- 
onianin  rhythm,  diction,  and  feeling, 
s appropriately  placed  first  in  the 
action  of  Juvenilia,1 

Nothing  will  dief  p.  3. 

irst  printed  in  1830,  and  for  a long 
i suppressed.  The  poem  is  a versi- 
statement  of  the  old  Heraclitean 
osophy  of  the  eternity  of  matter. 

I Lucretius,  p.  160. 

4ost  of  the  poems  included  in  the  Juve- 
i were  printed  in  the  books  of  1830  and 
but  not  all.  Some  of  the  pieces  in  these 
?r  volumes  were  for  many  years  withdrawn 
publication,  and  restored  at  various  times 
e collected  editions  (from  1869  to  1886). 


All  Things  will  die , p.  4. 

First  printed  in  1830,  and  afterward 
suppressed . A companion  poem  to  Noth- 
ing will  dief  giving  the  opposite  view  of 
the  beginning  and  ending  of  the  world. 

Leonine  Elegiacs , p.  4. 

First  printed,  with  the  title  Elegiacs , 
in  1830,  and  suppressed  in  later  editions. 
Of  Leonine  Mr.  Luce  remarks:  “ From 
Leo  or  Leoninus,  canon  of  the  Church  of 
St.  Victor,  Paris,  twelfth  century,  who 
wrote  many  such.  The  end  of  the  line 
rhymes  with  the  middle.”  ( Handbook 
to  Tennyson’s  Works , 1895,  p.  80.)  Cf. 
lines  13  and  14  with  the  paraphrase  of 
Sappho’s  verses  in  Frederick  Tennyson’s 
Isles  of  Greece : — 

“ Hesper,  thou  bringest  back  again 

All  that  the  gaudy  daybeams  part, 

The  sheep,  the  goat  back  to  their  pen, 

The  child  home  to  his  mother’s  heart.” 

Also  see  couplet  on  Hesper  in  Locks - 
ley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After , p.  645. 

Supposed  Confessions , p.  4. 

First  printed  in  1830,  with  the  title 
Supposed  Confessions  of  a Second-Rate 
Sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity  with  Itself; 
suppressed  in  later  editions,  and  after- 
ward restored.  The  poem  probably 
contains  some  autobiographical  touches, 
revealing  the  poet’s  introspective  habits 
and  questioning  moods  in  youth,  not- 
withstanding the  pious  atmosphere  of 
his  Somersby  home.  Cf.  In  Memoriamt 
XCVI. 


689 


690 


NOTES . 


The  Kraken,  p.  7. 

First  printed  in  1830;  suppressed  in 
later  editions,  and  afterward  restored. 

Song , p.  7. 

First  printed  in  1830,  but  suppressed 
in  later  editions.  The  influence  of  Shel- 
ley is  apparent  in  this  song,  as  in  other 
poems  of  Tennyson’s. 

Lilian , p.  7* 

First  published  in  1830.  Of  Tenny- 
son’s portraits  of  women,  Lilian,  Ade- 
line, etc.,  Taine  says : “ I have  translated 
many  ideas  and  many  styles,  but  I shall 
not  attempt  to  translate  one  of  these 
portraits.  Each  word  of  them  is  like  a 
tint,  curiously  deepened  or  shaded  by 
the  neighboring  tint,  with  all  the  bold- 
ness and  results  of  the  happiest  refine- 
ment. The  least  alteration  would 
obscure  all.  And  there  an  art  so  just, 
so  consummate,  is  necessary  to  paint 
the  charming  prettinesses,  the  sudden 
hauteurs,  the  half-blushes,  the  imper- 
ceptible and  fleeting  caprices  of  femi- 
nine beauty.”  (Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,  V.,  vi.) 

Isabel , p.  7. 

First  printed  in  1830.  The  poet’s 
much-loved  mother  is  the  woman  whose 
praises  are  sung  in  this  poem  and  else- 
where in  his  works.  See  Memoir  by  his 
son,  1897,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  17, 18. 

Mariana , p,  8. 

First  printed  in  1830,  substantially  as 
it  is  now.  Even  then  Tennyson  was  fond 
of  using  uncommon  words,  such  as  mar- 
ish  for  marsh , a habit  that  clung  to  him 
through  life.  The  poem  is  an  admir- 
able piece  of  word-painting,  built  on 
the  merest  suggestion  in  Shakespeare’s 
drama.  Cf.  Spenser’s  Faerie  Queene , 
III.,  ii.,  stanzas  28,  29.  According  to 
Tennyson,  “ the  Moated  Grange  is  an 
imaginary  house  in  the  fen.”  Napier 


says:  “Moated  granges  of  this  descri] 
tion  still  exist  in  the  fenny  districts  c 
Lincolnshire,  but  they  are  many  mik 
distant  from  Somersby,  hence  the  see* 
ery  which  colors  this  poem  is  not  take 
from  the  country  round  the  poet’s  birti 
place,  as  it  has  no  features  in  comm< 
with  the  landscape  depicted  in  ‘Mai 
ana.’  ” (Homes  and  Haunts  of  Tenn 
son,  1892,  p.  84.) 

Mariana  in  the  South , p.  9. 

First  printed  in  the  1832  Poems;  i 
written,  with  two  new  stanzas,  for  t 
1812  edition.  The  scenery  is  said  to 
that  of  southern  France,  which  the  pc 
visited  in  1830. 

To — p.  10. 

First  printed  in  1830.  The  “ cle< 
headed  friend”  was  J.  W.  Blakesl 
(1808-85) , who  belonged  to  the  intima 
circle  of  Tennyson’s  associates  at  Ca 
bridge ; he  was  later  Dean  of  Lincoln 

Madeline , p.  11. 

First  printed  in  1830.  Possibly  t 
poem  and  other  word-portraits  of  won: 
contain  references  to  the  love  affairs 
the  poet  in  his  early  manhood. 

The  Owl , p.  11. 

First  printed  in  1830.  The  poem  is 
echo  of  the  song  in  Shakespeare’s  Lot 
Labor  Lost , V.,  ii. 

Second  Song,  p.  12. 

First  printed  in  1830.  Tennyson  wl 
a boy  had  a pet  owl.  ( Memoir , I.,  p.  1 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nig> 

p.  12. 

First  printed  in  1830.  A piece  of  s 
geous  description  after  the  mannei 
Coleridge’s  Kubla  Khan.  Says  Li 
“ Probably  there  is  no  more  strib 


NOTES . 


691 


hievement  of  musical  word-painting 
the  language.” 

Ode  to  Memory , p.  14. 

First  printed  in  1830.  Stanza  IV.  is 
miniscent  of  Tennyson’s  boyhood 
me  in  Somersby.  “ In  later  life  he 
mid  often  recall  with  affection  his 
rly  haunts,  the  gray  hill  near  the 
ictory,  the  winding  lanes  shadowed 
tall  elm  trees,  and  the  two  brooks 
at  meet  at  the  bottom  of  the  glebe- 
id.”  Stanza  V.  refers  to  the  seaside 
jwn  of  Mablethorpe  on  the  Lincoln- 
ire  coast,  where  the  Tennysons  used 
spend  the  summer  months. 

Song , p.  15. 

Printed  in  1830.  Luce  regards  it  as 
or  poetry.  There  seems  to  be  an 
ho  of  the  refrain, 

Leavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i’  the  earth  so  chilly,” 
in  Poe’s  Dreamland. 

A Character,  p.  16. 

Printed  in  1830.  The  poem  is  said  to 
a portraiture  of  Thomas  Sunderland, 
nan  of  eccentric  tastes  and  material- 
ic  views,  whom  the  poet  knew  at 
mbridge. 

The  Poet , p.  16. 

Printed  in  1830.  Like  Milton,  Tenny- 
i,  when  a young  man,  realized  the 
rd’s  exalted  mission.  The  true  poet 
here  represented  to  be  a seer  rather 
tn  a literary  artist. 

? The  Poets  Mind , p.  17. 

Printed  in  1830.  Tennyson’s  point  of 
w in  this  poem  is  the  same  as  Words- 
ftrth’s  in  A Poets  Epitaph . 

The  Sea-Fairies,  p.  18. 

Tinted  in  1830.  The  main  thought 
the  poem  recalls  a passage  in  the 

t 


Odyssey , XII.,  describing  the  ‘‘clean 
toned  song  ” of  the  Sirens. 

The  Deserted  House , p.  18. 

Printed  in  1830,  but  omitted  in  the 
1842  Poems;  restored  in  the  next  edi- 
tion. The  poem  is  an  allegory;  “the 
deserted  house  ” is  the  body  after  the 
spirit  has  fled. 

The  Dying  Swan,  p.  19. 

Printed  in  1830.  Though  not  much  is 
said  of  “ the  wild  swan’s  death-hymn,” 
the  poem  is  remarkable  for  the  realistic 
description  of  the  desolate  landscape. 

A Dirge,  p.  19. 

Printed  in  1830.  A poem  in  Tenny- 
son’s peculiar  manner,  musical  and  fe- 
licitous. 

Love  and  Death,  p.  20. 

Printed  in  1830.  A striking  poem, 
giving  beautiful  expression  to  Tenny- 
son’s spiritual  philosophy,  suggestive  of 
the  triumphant  close  of  In  Memoriam. 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana,  p.  20. 

Printed  in  1830.  The  poem  is  an  imi- 
tation of  the  ballads  on  the  death  of 
Helen  of  Kirkconnel. 

Circumstance , p.  21. 

Printed  in  1830.  A good  example  of 
Tennyson’s  wondrous  faculty  of  con- 
densing much  into  little. 

The  Merman,  p.  22. 

Printed  in  1830.  Parodied  in  Aytoun 
and  Martin’s  Bon  Gaultier  Ballads,  1843- 

The  Mermaid,  p.  22. 

Printed  in  1830.  The  poem  recalls 
the  voice  of  the  ocean  spirit  in  Byron’s 
Manfred,  I.,  i.  Luce  remarks  of  The 
Merman  and  The  Mermaid : “ They 


692 


NOTES . 


may  be  called  trifles  in  the  volumes  of 
Tennyson,  but  they  would  look  more 
than  pretty  in  the  pages  of  a lesser  poet. 
They  exhibit  his  accustomed  wealth  of 
diction,  in  which  they  often  resemble 
Shelley  and  Keats,  and  they  have  much 
witchery  of  sound.” 

Adeline , p.  23. 

Printed  in  1830.  ^ blemish  in  some 
of  Tennyson’s  early  poems  is  the  careless 
use  of  rhymes  occasionally  found,  such 
as  skies  and  spice  in  stanza  V. 

Margaret , p.  24. 

First  printed  in  1832.  This  may  be  a 
portrait  from  life  ; the  “ pale  Margaret  ” 
is  Said  to  have  been  the  poet’s  cousin. 

Rosalind , p.  25. 

First  printed  in  1832 ; omitted  in  latbr 
editions,  and  afterward  restored.  Rosa- 
lind is  evidently  a girl  of  the  middle  or 
upper  classes,  as  are  the  majority  of 
Tennyson’s  women. 

Eleanor e,  p.  25. 

First  printed  in  1832.  Perhaps  an 
idealized  portrait  of  an  English  maiden 
born  in  a foreign  land,  possibly  France. 
Lines  127-41  may  be  an  echo  of 
Sappho’s  famous  ode.  Says  Luce: 
“ ‘ Eleanore  ’ recalls  Shelley  more  than 
a dozen  times,  and  many  other  poets, 
ancient  and  modern,  enter  into  its  elab- 
orate composition.” 

My  life  is  full  of  weary  days , p.  27. 

First  printed  with  the  title;  To , 

in  1832  ; omitted  in  later  editions.  Two 
stanzas  of  the  second  piece  were  re- 
printed in  1865.  Several  changes  were 
made  in  the  text. 

To , p.  28. 

This  sonnet  was  first  printed  in  1832, 
and  was  for  many  years  withdrawn 
from  publication.  The  peculiar  trance- 


experience  described  is  often  spoken  < 
in  Tennyson’s  later  works. 

To  J.  M.  K.}  p.  28. 
Printed  in  1830.  The  initials  a 
those  of  the  eminent  Anglo-Sax< 
scholar,  John  Mitchell  Kemble  (180 
57),  one  of  the  poet’s  college  friend 
The  poem  hints  at  the  degenerate  sta 
of  the  Anglican  clergy  in  the  days  b 
fore  the  Oxford  movement. 

Mine  be  the  strength , p.  28. 
First  printed  in  1832,  and  omitted 
later  editions.  This  sonnet,  thou 
faulty  in  some  respects,  well  illustra 
Tennyson’s  use  of  natural  phenome 
for  poetical  material. 

Alexander , p.  28. 

First  published  in  the  Library  edit 
of  Tennyson’s  Works,  6 vols.,  1871- 
Based  on  an  incident  related  by  Arri 
Be  Exped.  Alexandria  Lib.  III.,  3 and 
In  this  sonnet  Tennyson  turns  to  g(| 
account  proper  names,  as  did  Miltor 
many  passages  of  Paradise  Lost  a 
Paradise  Regained. 

Buonaparte , p.  29. 

First  printed  in  1832,  but  omitted 
later  editions.  Exhibits  the  Britc 
characteristic  pride  in  the  English 
tories  over  the  French. 

Poland , p.  29. 

First  printed  in  1832  with  the  ti 
On  the  Result  of  the  late  Russian  Ir 
sion  of  Poland omitted  in  later 
tions.  The  poet’s  hostility  to  Ru 
breaks  out  again  in  the  poem,  To 
Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice , p.  182. 

Caress'd  or  chidden , p.  29. 
First  printed  in  1865  with  the 
following  sonnets  under  the  title,  T 
Sonnets  to  a Coquette.  “Though 
full-bodied  nor  trumpet-toned,  they 


NOTES. 


693 


original  as  they  are  beautiful.” 
uce) . 

If  I were  loved,  p.  30. 

first  printed  in  1832;  suppressed  in 
er  editions,  and  restored  (in  1871-73  ?) . 

The  Bridesmaid,  p.  30. 
first  printed  in  Library  edition,  1871- 
The  bridesmaid  was  Emily  Sellwood, 
erward  Lady  Tennyson,  and  the  bride 
s her  younger  sister,  Louisa,  married 
he  poet’s  older  brother  Charles  (May 
1836). 

The  Lady  of  Shalott,  p.  31. 
rirst  printed  in  1832.  Said  to  be 
ned  after  an  Italian  romance,  Donna 
S calotta.  The  poem  is  an  earlier  ver- 
n of  the  story  of  Lancelot  and  Elaine. 

The  Two  Voices , p.  33. 

i first  printed  in  1842,  though  written 
23  in  1833  when  Tennyson  was  broken 
'Spirit  by  the  death  of  Arthur  Hallam. 
’rell  says  of  Lucretius:  “I  know  of 
other  poem  except  Tennyson’s  Two 
Ices  in  which  the  same  wealth  of 
sy  is  enlisted  to  explain  and  beautify 
truse  argument.  Nearly  every  verse 
>he  Two  Voices  illustrates  this  exqui- 
s marriage  of  poetry  and  logic.” 
>evey,  in  his  Estimate  of  Modern 
glish  Poets,  pp.  290-91,  thus  com- 
ats on  the  poem:  “In  the  ‘Two 
ces  ’ the  poet  deals  with  the  exis- 
jce  of  evil  and  the  enigma  of  life  and 
1 th  purely  upon  philosophic  grounds, 
his  verses  are  little  more  than  an 
glish  rendering  of  Goethe’s,  except 
ft  the  casual  conjectures  which  the 
man  poet  thought  worthy  of  being 
tted  only  in  a spirit  of  sportive  ban- 
the  English  poet  has  invested  with 
air  of  sepulchral  solemnity.”  The 
i^rence  is  likely  to  Faust,  Prologue  in 
liven  and  Act  I. 

he  divisions  of  the  argument  are  as 
| aws : stanzas  1-15 ; 16-33 ; 34-76 ; 


77-105;  106-34;  135-54.  Cf.  stanzas 

127-28  with  To , p.  28.  The  same 

thought  is  developed  by  Wordsworth  in 
Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality . 

The  Miller's  Daughter,  p.  39. 

First  printed  in  1832.  This  exquisite 
lyric  was  rewritten  and  greatly  im- 
proved before  its  republication  in  1842. 
It  contains  many  borrowings  from 
Homer,  Ronsard,  and  other  poets.  The 
incident  is  related  that  the  Queen 
chanced  to  pick  up  one  of  Tennyson’s 
earlier  books,  and  was  charmed  with 
the  simple  story  of  The  Miller's  Daugh- 
ter ; she  procured  a copy  of  the  volume 
for  the  Princess  Alice,  and  thus  brought 
Tennyson’s  poetry  into  favor  with  the 
British  aristocracy  in  the  mid-century. 

Fatima,  p.  42. 

First  printed  in  1832.  Fatima  is  an 
example  of  the  passionate  Oriental 
woman.  Like  the  sentimental  Mariana, 
she  makes  love  all  in  all.  Saj^s  Luce . 
“ The  merit  of  the  poem  is  considerable  ; 
the  four  rhymes  followed  by  three  pro- 
duce a fine  effect  of  intense  and  pro- 
longed emotion ; indeed,  music,  imagery, 
passion,  all  are  remarkable,  and  more 
than  worthy  to  be  the  inspiration  of 
Mr.  Swinburne.” 

(Enone,  p.  43. 

First  printed  in  1832.  Part  of  the 
poem  was  written  in  the  summer  of 
1830,  when  Tennyson  (with  Hallam) 
was  visiting  the  Pyrenees,  which  are 
described  in  some  of  the  loveliest  pas- 
sages. The  last  lines  are  prophetic  of 
the  burning  of  Troy.  An  account  of 
the  nymph’s  tragic  end  is  given  in  one 
of  his  latest  poems,  The  Death  of  (Enone 
(1892). 

The  Sisters,  p.  47. 

First  printed  in  1832.  Swinburne  has 
a rather  remarkable  comment  on  this 
poem:  “In  those  six  short  stanzas. 


NOTES. 


694 


without  effort,  without  pretence,  with- 
out parade  — in  other  words,  without 
any  of  the  component  qualities  of 
Byron’s  serious  poetry  — there  is  sim- 
ple and  sufficient  expression  for  the 
combined  and  contending  passions  of 
womanly  pride  and  rage,  physical  at- 
traction and  spiritual  abhorrence,  all 
the  outer  and  inner  bitterness  and 
sweetness  of  hatred  *ind  desire,  resolu- 
tion and  fruition  and  revenge.”  (Mis- 
cellanies, p.  94.) 

To , p.  48. 

First  printed  in  1832.  It  has  been 
asserted  that  the  soul  described  here 
stands  for  Goethe,  but  the  poem  follow- 
ing can  have  only  partial  application  to 
the  poet  whose  self-confessed  aim  in  life 
was  — “im  Ganzen,  Guten,  Schonen, 
Resolut  zu  leben.” 

The  Palace  of  Art , p.  48. 

First  printed  in  1832.  The  poem  was 
afterward  almost  entirely  rewritten. 
A study  of  the  changes  in  the  text  as 
printed  in  1842  and  later  corrections  was 
made  by  Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke,  who  says : 
“ In  1833  the  poem,  including  the  notes, 
contained  eighty-three  stanzas ; in  1884 
it  has  only  seventy-five.  Of  the  origi- 
nal number  thirty-one  have  been  en- 
tirely omitted  — in  other  words,  more 
than  a third  of  the  structure  has  been 
pulled  down;  and,  in  place  of  these, 
twenty-two  new  stanzas  have  been 
added,  making  a change  of  fifty-three 
stanzas.  The  fifty-two  that  remain 
have  almost  all  been  retouched  and 
altered,  so  that  very  few  stand  to-day 
in  the  same  shape  which  they  had  at 
the  beginning.  I suppose  there  is  no 
other  poem  in  the  language,  not  even 
among  the  writings  of  Tennyson,  which 
has  been  worked  over  so  carefully  as 
this.”  ( The  Poetry  of  Tennyson , 1892, 
p.  41.) 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere , p.  53. 

Written  in  1833,  and  first  published 


in  1842.  One  of  Tennyson’s  represent; 
tive  poems,  showing  him  to  be  in  touc 
with  the  growing  democratic  spirit  i 
England. 

The  May  Queen , p.  54. 

The  two  first  divisions  of  The  Mo 
Queen  were  first  published  in  1832 ; tl 
Conclusion  in  1842,  though  composed 
1833. 

The  Lotos-Eaters , p.  58. 

First  published  in  1832,  and  later  su 
jected  to  thorough  revision.  So  mai 
lines  in  VIII.  were  changed,  that  it  w 
practically  a new  stanza  in  the  text 
1842.  The  suggestion  of  the  poem  w 
doubtless  derived  from  the  Odysse 
IX.,  82-102,  and  other  passages.  C 
lins  says  Tennyson  “has  laid  otbj 
poets  under  contribution  for  his  t 
chanting  poem,  notably  Bion,  Moschi 
Spenser  (description  of  the  Idle  Lai 
Faerie  Queene,  bk.  ii.  canto  vi.),  a 
Thomson  {Castle  of  Indolence ).” 

A Dream  of  Fair  Women,  p.  61 

First  printed  in  1832,  but  grea 
changed  before  and  after  its  appearai 
in  1842.  Of  some  “balloon  stanza 
beginning  the  poem  of  1832  Fitzger; 
said,  “They  make  a perfect  po 
by  themselves  without  affecting 
‘dream.’”  The  women  seen  by 
poet  in  vision  are  Helen  of  Troy,  Ij 
genia,  Cleopatra,  Jephtha’s  daught 
Rosamund,  Margaret  Roper,  and  Qu( 
Eleanor.  Cf.  Goethe’s  treatment  of 
story  of  Iphigenia  ( Iphigenia  in  Tau 
V.,  i.,  tr.  by  Swanwick) : — 

“ I trembling  kneeled  before  the  al 
once, 

And  solemnly  the  shade  of  early  de 
Environed  me.  Aloft  the  knife  1 
raised 

To  pierce  my  bosom,  throbbing  v 
warm  life ; 

A dizzy  horror  overwhelmed  my  s< 
My  eyes  grew  dim ; — I found  my 
in  safety.” 


NOISES. 


695 


See  song  of  Jephtha’s  daughter  in 
yron’s  Hebrew  Melodies. 

The  Blackbird , p.  66. 
Written  in  1833 ; first  printed  in  1842. 
re  bird  is  of  the  thrush  species  com- 
on  in  England,  not  the  American 
ackbird. 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year , p.  67. 
First  printed  in  1832. 

To  J.  S.,  p.  67. 

First  printed  in  1832.  The  poem  was 
idressed  to  James  Spedding,  on  the 
ath  of  his  brother  Edward.  Sped- 
ng  (1808-81),  the  noted  Bacon  scholar, 
as  one  of  the  poet’s  most  intimate 
iends  at  Cambridge.  Stanzas  5 and  6 
fer  to  the  death  of  Dr.  G.  C.  Tenny- 
n (March  16,  1831). 

On  a Mourner , p.  68. 

First  printed  in  A Selection  from  the 
rorks  of  Alfred  Tennyson , 1865. 

You  ask  me,  why , p.  69. 
Written  in  1833;  first  published  in 
42.  This  poem  and  the  two  com- 
: ,nion  pieces  following  were  occasioned 
the  discussion  of  the  Reform  Bill  of 
32,  which  added  half  a million  electors 
:om  the  middle  classes). 

1 Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
% p.  69. 

Written  in  1833 ; first  published  in  1842. 
le  poem  briefly  traces  the  development 
constitutional  liberty  in  England.  Of 
;is  and  the  preceding  poem  Words- 
>rth  remarked  once  in  conversation : 

; ' must  acknowledge  that  these  two 
ems  are  very  solid  and  noble  in 
3ught.  Their  diction  also  seems  sin- 
1 larly  stately.” 

Love  thou  thy  land , p.  70. 
Written  in  1833;  first  published  in 


1842.  These  three  poems  (62,  63,  64) 
contain  an  epitome  of  Tennyson’s  politi- 
cal philosophy.  They  show  his  intense 
Englishness  and  his  aristocratic  lean- 
ings. He  was  a moderate  Conservative, 
who  believed  in  gradual  reform. 

England  and  America  in  1782 , p.  71. 

First  printed  in  an  American  news- 
paper in  i872 ; republished  in  the  Cabi- 
net edition  of  Tennyson’s  Works,  12 
vols.,  1874-77.  The  poem  affords  abun- 
dant evidence  of  the  changed  attitude 
of  Englishmen  toward  Americans,  not- 
withstanding the  violent  disruption  of 
the  British  Empire  in  the  Revolutionary 
War. 

Tha  Goose , p.  72. 

First  printed  in  1842.  The  poem  “ is 
a lively  allegory  of  commerce  and  free 
trade.” 

The  Epic,  p.  73. 

First  published  in  1842  as  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  blank-verse  fragment,  Morte 
d’ Arthur.  The  poem  is  interesting  for 
its  incidental  references  to  the  tenden- 
cies of  the  age,  social  and  religious. 

Morte  d’ Arthur,  p.  74. 

The  first  draft  of  this  poem  seems  to 
have  been  written  as  early  as  1833, 
though  not  published  until  1842.  After- 
ward incorporated  in  the  concluding 
poem  of  Idylls  of  the  King  (1869). 
Tennyson’s  epic,  “his  King  Arthur, 
some  twelve  books,”  was  finished  in 
1885  by  the  publication  of  Balin  and 
Balan,  p.  619. 

The  Gardener’s  Daughter,  p.  79. 

Mentioned  in  letters  of  1833,  hut  first 
printed  in  1842.  Of  the  English  idyls, 
“pictures  of  English  home  and  country 
life,”  published  in  1842,  it  has  been  re- 
marked that  the  fundamental  note  is  the 
sanctity  of  the  family  relation,  the  fidel- 
ity of  lover  and  sweetheart  and  of  hus- 
band and  wife.  On  the  purity  of  the 


696 


NOTES. 


home  depends  not  only  the  happiness 
but  the  permanence  of  the  nation.  It 
is  said  that  this  poem  contains  Tenny- 
son’s favorite  line : — 

“The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm.” 

See  prologue  to  The  Gardener's  Daugh- 
ter in  Memoir  by  his  son,  I.,  pp.  199, 200. 

Dora,  p.-84. 

Written  as  early  as;  1835 ; first  printed 
in  1842.  The  pathetic  incident  of  this 
idyl  is  based  on  a tale  in  Miss  Mitford’s 
Village.  Said  Tennyson  of  its  style: 

“ ‘ Dora,’  being  the  tale  of  a nobly  simple 
country  girl,  had  to  be  told  in  the  simplest 
possible  poetical  language,  and  therefore 
was  one  of  the  poem§  which  gave  most 
trouble.”  Wordsworth,  who  highly  ap- 
preciated its  merit,  once  remarked  to 
him:  “Mr.  Tennyson,  I have  been  en- 
deavoring all  my  life  to  write  a pas- 
toral like  your  * Dora  ’ and  have  not 
succeeded.”  Aubrey  de  Yere  called 
Dora  “ an  English  Ruth.” 

Audley  Court , p.  87. 

First  printed  in  1842.  This  poem, 
“ partially  suggested  by  Abbey  Park  at 
Torquay,”  is  valuable  for  its  vigorous 
pictures  of  middle-class  life  in  England. 
The  landscape  and  the  men,  as  Aubrey 
de  Vere  says,  “mutually  reflect  each 
other.” 

Walking  to  the  Mail , p.  89. 

First  published  in  1842.  The  poem  is 
rather  remarkable  for  its  allusions  to 
the  stirring  events  of  the  thirties  and 
forties.  Of  the  “ two  parties”  Tenny- 
son belonged  to  “ those  that  have,”  yet 
he  was  in  sympathy  with  movements  for 
the  physical  and  intellectual  improve- 
ment of  the  people.  See  Memoir , I., 
p.  185. 

Edwin  Morris , p.  91. 

Written  in  Wales  in  1839 ; first  printed 
in  Poems , 7th  ed.,  1851.  A mannerism, 


shrilled  (p.  93) , is  often  found  in  Tenn 
son’s  later  writings. 

St.  Simeon  Sty liles,  p.  94. 
First  printed  in  1842.  A good  illustr 
tion  of  the  dramatic  monologue,  whi 
Browning  used  so  successfully.  T 
celebrated  Syrian  pillar-saint  (d.  45 
figures  in  Gibbon’s  Decline  and  Fa 
XXXVII. 

The  Talking  Oak , p.  97. 
First  printed  in  1842.  One  of  Teni 
son’s  happiest  ventures  in  the  ball 
measure. 

Love  and  Duty , p.  101. 

First  published  in  1842.  The  po 
exhibits  Tennyson’s  moralizing  hal 
The  importance  of  self-control,  of  obe 
ence  to  duty,  is  the  keynote  of  man) 
his  utterances. 

The  Golden  Year,  p.  103. 

First  printed  in  Poems , 4th  ed.,  18 
In  this  poem  Tennyson  has  admira 
caught  the  spirit  of. reform  and  phil 
thropy  that  pervaded  England  in 
early  years  of  the  Victorian  reign. 

Ulysses,  p.  104. 

First  published  in  1842.  Of  Ulys : 
which  was  composed  not  long  after 
thur  Henry  Hallam’s  death,  in  T 
Tennyson  said  it  “was  written  un 
the  sense  of  loss,  and  that  all  had  g 
by,  but  that  still  life  must  be  fought 
to  the  end.”  This  striking  poem  i 
only  shows  Tennyson  in  his  most  her 
mood,  it  reflects  the  unrest  and  a;- 
ration  of  the  period.  The  poet  v 
especially  indebted  to  Horace  (I.. 
and  to  Dante  {Inferno,  26)  for 
leading  motive. 

Tithonus , p.  106. 

First  printed  in  the  Cornhill  M< 

, zine,  February,  1860.  It  was  wri 


NOTES . 


697 


many  years  before,  about  the  time  that 
Ulysses  was  composed,  and  is  as  beauti- 
ful as  that  masterpiece.  Waugh  says  : 
‘“Tithonus/  which  in  the  original 
opened  a little  differently  — 

‘ Ay  me!  Ay  me!  the  woods  decay  and 
fall/  — 

is  not  only  touched  with  Tennyson’s 
richest  color,  it  has  also  a distinct  place 
in  his  work  as  an  utterance  of  his  favor- 
ite creed.  Mr)dkv  dyav  is  once  more  its 
motto.  The  immortality  which  Tithonus 
desired  turns  to  ashes  in  his  mouth : he 
is  sick  of  life,  who  cannot  die.”  ( Alfred , 
Lord  Tennyson , 1893,  p.  185.) 

LocJcsley  Hall,  p.  107. 

First  printed  in  1842 ; its  composition 
is  said  to  have  occupied  the  poet  six 
weeks.  The  main  thought  he  owed  to  a 
translation  of  the  Arabic  Moallakat, 
prize  odes  “ which  were  written  in 
golden  letters  and  hung  up  on  the  por- 
tals of  the  sacred  shrine  at  Mecca.” 
Tennyson  thus  comments  on  the  place 
and  the  poem : 44  4 Locksley  Hall  ’ is  an 
imaginary  place  (tho’  the  coast  is  Lin- 
colnshire) and  the  hero  is  imaginary. 
The  whole  poem  represents  young  life, 
its  good  side,  its  deficiencies,  and  its 
yearnings.  Mr.  Hallam  said  to  me  that 
the  English  people  liked  verse  in  tro- 
chaics,  so  I wrote  the  poem  in  this 
metre.” 

There  i$  a close  parallel  between 
couplets  9 and  10  and  these  lines  from 
Pervigilium  Veneris : — 

44  Cras  amet  qui  nunquam  amavit,  quique 
amavit  cras  amet, 

Ver  novum,  vir  jam  canorum ; vere 
natus  orbis  est, 

Vere  concordant  amores,  vere  nubent 
alites.” 

Couplet  16  recalls  Goethe’s  epigram : — 
4 Eros,  wie  seh’  ich  dich  hier!  Im  jeg- 
lichem  Handchen  die  Sanduhr ! 
Wie?  Leichtsinniger  Gott,  missest 
du  doppelt  die  Zeit  ? 


“ Langsam  rinnen  aus  einer  die  Stunden 
entfernter  Geliebten : 

Gegenwartigen  fliesst  eilig  die  zweite 
herab.” 

Couplet  38,  from  Dante’s  Inferno , V., 
121,  is  also  similar  to  Alfred  de  Musset’s 
lines  in  Lucie  : — 

4 4 II  n’est  pire  douleur, 

Qu’un  souvenir  heureux  dans  les  jours 
du  malheur.” 

The  poet  got  the  simile  of  the  lion 
(line  135)  from  Pringle’s  Travels , which 
he  was  reading  in  1837. 

A considerable  number  of  the  phrases 
and  lines  of  this  deservedly  popular 
poem  have  become  familiar  quotations, 
admired  for  their  consummate  brevity 
and  felicity.  Some  of  the  more  striking 
thoughts  and  images  of  Locksley  Hall 
occur  again  and  again  in  Tennyson’s 
later  works,  in  slightly  different  form. 

Godiva,  p.  113. 

First  published  in  1842.  While  wait- 
ing for  the  train  at  Coventry  in  1840 
Tennyson  shaped  this  ancient  legend 
into  an  exquisite  idyl,  which  has  sug- 
gested two  or  three  statues  of  Lady 
Godiva.  A brief  account  of  the  circum- 
stance, which  took  place  in  the  eleventh 
century,  is  given  in  Dugdale’s  Antiqui- 
ties of  Warwickshire , 1656.  Cf.  poems 
on  Godiva  by  Moultrie  and  Leigh  Hunt. 

The  Day-Dream , p.  114. 

First  published  in  1842,  except  the  part 
entitled  The  Sleeping  Beauty , printed  in 
1830.  Edward  Fitzgerald  heard  the  poem 
read  in  1835,  all  but  the  prologue  and  the 
epilogue.  Incidentally  the  poem  reveals 
the  new  interest  in  physical  science  felt 
in  England  in  the  thirties.  Lady  Flora 
is  evidently  one  of  the  few  women  in 
Tennyson’s  works  who  are  intellectual 
and  personally  attractive. 

Amphion,  p.  118. 

First  published  in  1842,  but  later  sub« 


698 


NOTES. 


jected  to  more  or  less  revision.  The 
fifth  stanza  originally  began  with  these 
lines : — 

“ The  birch  tree  swung  her  fragrant  hair, 
The  bramble  cast  her  berry, 

The  gin  within  the  juniper 
Began  to  make  him  merry.” 

St.  Agnes'  Eve , p.  120. 

First  printed,  with  the  title  St.  Agnes , 
in  The  Keepsake , 1837.  The  poem  is 
mentioned  in  correspondence  of  1834. 
Says  Professor  Cook : “ 4 St.  Agnes’  Eve  ’ 
is  a study  of  medieval  mysticism,  — of 
pure  devotional  passion  such  as  we  en- 
counter in  the  lives  of  St.  Catharine  of 
Siena  and  St.  Teresa  of  Jesus.  It  be- 
longs in  the  same  class  with  ‘ St.  Simeon 
Stylites  ’ and  ‘ Sir  Galahad,’  and  may  be 
regarded,  together  with  them,,  as  a lyri- 
cal forerunner  of  portions  of  the  ‘ Idylls 
of  the  King,’  particularly  of  such  pas- 
sages as  the  description  of  Percival’s 
sister  in  ‘ The  Holy  Grail  ’ and  the  clois- 
tered penitence  of  Guinevere  as  depicted 
in  the  idyll  of  that  name.”  ( Poet-Lore, 
January,  1891,  p.  10.) 

Sir  Galahad , p.  120. 

First  published  in  1842,  though  written 
as  early  as  1834.  Says  Luce:  “‘Sir 
Galahad  ’ is  an  ideal  of  chivalry  as  well 
as  a type  of  religion.  But  from  one 
point  of  view  he  is  St.  Agnes  in  the  form 
of  a man.  Like  hers  is  his  stainless 
purity  and  his  ecstatic  devotion  to  an 
ideal  that  has  usurped  the  dearer  in- 
stincts of  humanity.  But  the  poem, 
though  full  of  lyrical  splendor,  is  not  so 
good  as  the  former ; that  was  perfect  in 
its  sufficiency;  this  is  imperfect  in  its 
opulence.”  ( Handbook , p.  183.) 

Edioard  Gray , p.  121. 

First  published  in  1842.  The  “sweet 
Emma  Moreland  ” of  this  pretty  ballad 
(written  in  1840)  forms  the  subject  of  a 
fine  painting  by  Sir  John  E.  Millais. 


Will  Waterproofs  Lyrical  Mono - 
logue,  p.  122. 

First  published  in  1842.  One  change 
in  stanza  5 may  be  noted.  The  lines  — 

“ Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 
The  current  of  my  days  ” — 

were  substituted  in  1853  for  — 

“ Like  Hezekiah’s  backward  runs 
The  shadow  of  my  days.” 

Edward  Fitzgerald  remarks:  “‘The 
plump  head-waiter  of  The  Cock,’  by 
Temple  Bar,  famous  for  chop  and  porter, 
was  rather  offended  when  told  of  the 
poem  (‘Will  Waterproof’).  ‘Had  Mr. 
Tennyson  dined  oftener  there,  he  would 
not  have  minded  it  so  much,’  he  said.” 
In  1887  the  proprietors  of  the  Cock 
Tavern  remembered  the  poet  with  the 
gift  of  an  old  tankard,  which  he  prized 
as  an  heirloom  of  “ the  old  vanished 
Tavern.” 

The  poem,  which  is  written  in  a pleas- 
ant vein,  proves  that  Tennyson  was  not 
always  steeped  in  melancholy  and  gloom 
in  his  early  manhood. 

Lady  Clare,  p.  124. 

First  published  in  1842.  Some  changes 
were  made  in  the  text  in  1851.  The 
poem  is  based  on  the  plot  of  Miss  Fer- 
rier’s  novel,  The  Inheritance.  Says 
Napier,  in  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Tenny- 
son, p.  90:  “The  marriage  relationship 
is  a favorite  theme  with  him,  and  many 
of  his  finest  poems  circle  round  it.  In 
‘ The  Lord  of  Burleigh,’  ‘ Lady  Clare,’ 
etc.,  he  brushes  aside  all  traditions,  and 
with  exquisite  pathos,  revels  in  that 
true  sentiment  he  is  so  fond  of,  showing 
that  when  there  exists  between  two 
persons  what  Scott  calls  ‘ the  secret 
sympathy,’  their  union  is  almost  sure  to 
be  a happy  one.” 

The  Captain,  p.  126. 

First  published  in  A Selection  from 
the  Works  of  Alf  red  Tennyson,  1865.  Of 


NOTES. 


699 


this  “ legend  of  the  navy”  Luce  says: 
“The  incidents  are  improbable;  no 
enemy  would  riddle  a ship  that  did  not 
fire  a shot  in  return.” 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh , p.  127. 

First  published  in  1842,  though  written 
as  early  as  1835.  According  to  Mr.  Na- 
pier, this  “ ballad  of  ballads  ” is  “ more 
than  the  creation  of  a poet’s  fancy,  being 
rather  a narrative  in  verse,  with  the 
usual  poetic  licenses,  of  the  wooing  and 
romantic  marriage  of  the  tenth  Earl  and 
first  Marquis  of  Exeter.”  Under  the 
assumed  name  of  John  Jones  he  married 
a farmer’s  daughter,  Sarah  Hoggins,  of 
Bolas,  Shropshire  (April  13,  1790).  She 
died  in  1797,  “aged  24,”  sincerely  la- 
mented by  her  husband  and  all  his  de- 
pendents. Burleigh  House  dates  back 
to  1587  and  is  situated  “in  Northamp- 
tonshire, on  the  borders  of  the  counties 
of  Rutland  and  Lincoln.” 

The  Voyage , p. 128. 

First  printed,  apparently,  in  the  Enoch 
Arden  volume,  1864.  The  poem  is  an 
allegorical  description  of  the  pursuit  of 
the  ideal.  Cf.  Tennyson’s  later  poem, 
Merlin  and  The  Gleam , p.  679. 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere , 
p.  129. 

First  published  in  1842.  Even  in  his 
college  days  Tennyson  was  attracted  by 
the  Arthurian  legend  and  composed 
some  verses  on  Launcelot  and  Guinevere. 
A single  stanza  of  these  unpublished 
verses  was  preserved  by  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald : — 

“ Life  of  the  Life  within  my  blood, 

Light  of  the  Light  within  mine  eyes, 

The  May  begins  to  breathe  and  bud, 
And  softly  blow  the  balmy  skies ; 

Bathe  with  me  in  the  fiery  flood, 

And  mingle  kisses,  tears,  and  sighs, 
^ Life  of  the  Life  within  my  blood, 

Light  of  the  Light  within  mine  eyes.” 


A Farewell,  p.  129. 

First  published  in  1842.  This  lovely 
little  lyric  dates  back,  no  doubt,  to  1837, 
when  the  Tennysons  left  Somersby. 
Probably  the  “ cold  rivulet  ” is  the 
brook  of  his  Ode  to  Memory,  IV.  (p.  15) . 

The  Beggar  Maid,  p.  130. 

First  published  in  1842.  The  beggar 
maid,  to  whose  incomparable  charms 
King  Cophetua  fell  a willing  prey,  fig- 
ures in  old  ballads  and  in  three  of  Shake- 
speare’s plays. 

The  Eagle , p.  130. 

First  published  in  Poems,  7th  ed.,  1851. 
There  is  an  unfortunate  change  in  the 
first  line  of  this  much-admired  fragment, 
due  to  the  poet’s  habit  of  ceaselessly 
revising  his  published  writings.  The 
first  reading  was 

“ He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked 
hands.” 

Some  of  the  emendations  of  later  years 
were  not  always  for  the  better. 

Move  eastward , happy  earth,  p.  130. 

First  published  in  1842.  A felicitous 
mingling  of  poetry  and  science. 

Come  not,  when  I am  dead,  p.  130. 

First  included  in  Poems,  7th  ed.,  1851. 
These  stanzas  were  printed  in  The  Keep - 
sake,  1851. 

The  Letters,  p.  130. 

First  published  in  Maud,  and  Other 
Poems,  1855. 

The  Vison  of  Sin,  p.  131. 

First  published  in  1842.  The  poem  as 
published  in  A Selection  from  the  Works 
of  Alfred  Tennyson,  1865,  contained  two 
lines  afterward  omitted.  They  are  near 
the  close  of  the  poem  : — 

“ Another  answer’d,  * But  a crime  of 
sense? 


700 


NOTES . 


Give  him  new  nerves  with  old  ex- 
perience.’ ” 

According  to  Shepherd  ( Bibliography 
of  Tennyson , 1896,  pp.  40-11)  these  lines 
occur  only  in  this  edition. 

The  poem  its&lf  is  an  allegory  convey- 
ing a religious  lesson  — the  just  and  in- 
evitable penalty  that  sooner  or  later 
overtakes  the  sensualist.  As  Palgrave 
puts  it:  “ The  life  of  selfish  pleasure 
ends  in  cynicism  and  cynicism  in  moral 
death.” 

To , p.  134. 

Contributed  to  the  Examiner , March 
24,  1849.  First  included  in  Poems , 6th 
ed.,  1850,  and  reprinted  (with  slight 
changes)  in  1853.  Like  The  Dead 
Prophet  (p.  634),  the  poem  expresses 
Tennyson’s  abhorrence  of  publicity. 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece , 
p.  135. 

First  published  in  Poems , 8th  ed.,  1853. 
Addressed  to  Edward  Lear  (1812-88), 
author  of  Journal  of  a Landscape 
Painter  in  Greece  and  Albania,  1851, 
and  other  illustrated  books  of  travel. 

Break , break,  break,  p.  135. 

First  published  in  1842,  hut  probably 
composed  in  the  spring  of  1834.  This 
melodious  wail,  occasioned  by  the  death 
of  Arthur  Hallam,  was  not  written  at 
Clevedon  by  the  Severn,  hut  “in  a 
Lincolnshire  lane  at  five  o’clock  in  the 
morning.” 

The  Poet's  Song,  p.  135. 

First  published  in  1842.  Cf.  The  Poet 
(p.  16)  and  The  Poet's  Mind  (p.  17) . 

The  Brook,  p.  136. 

First  published  in  Maud,  and  Other 
Poems,  1855.  It  is  said  that  the  poem, 
or  one  on  the  same  subject,  was  written 
some  twenty  years  before  and,  like 
other  verses  of  this  productive  period, 
was  thrown  aside.  The  manuscript  was 


rescued  by  chance  from  a pile  of 
waste  paper.  The  babbling  stream  of 
this  exquisite  idyl  is  not  the  rivulet 
near  Somersby , but  a brook  existing  only 
in  the  poet’s  imagination.  The  “ fig- 
ure like  a wizard  pentagram  ” (line  103) 
recalls  a passage  in  Faust,  Pt.  I.,  Act  I.,  — 
‘The  wizard’s  foot  that  on  the  threshold 
made  is,”  etc. 

Lines  20-25  of  The  Brook  recall 
Goethe’s  Bachlein. 

Aylmer's  Field,  p.  140. 

First  published  in  1855.  Mr.  Wool- 
ner,  who  was  a friend  of  Tennyson’s, 
furnished  the  plot.  It  is  the  opinion  of 
Mr.  Luce  that  the  locality  is  in  Kent, 
while  Mr.  Napier  thinks  the  scenery  is 
like  that  near  Bayons  Manor,  the  seat 
of  the  Tennyson-d’Eyncourts.  It  is 
certainly  depicted  with  wonderful  loveli- 
ness and  effectiveness.  It  is  a labored 
idyl,  which  the  poet  found  hard  to  man- 
age. Says  Napier:  “In  ‘Maud’  and 
‘ Locksley  Hall  ’ he  declaims  in  tones  of 
thunder  against  those  who  sin  against 
‘ the  truth  of  love  ’ and  especially  in 
‘ Aylmer’s  Field,’  taking  for  his  text  the 
words,  ‘ Behold,  your  house  is  left  unto 
you  desolate ! ’ he  teaches  the  lesson  of 
pride  trampling  on  love,  and  leaving  in 
its  train  desolation  and  ruin.” 

Sea  Dreams,  p.  155. 

First  printed  in  Macmillan' s Magazine , 
January,  1860 ; afterward  included  in  the 
Enoch  Arden  volume,  1864.  Sea 
Dreams,  says  Stopford  Brooke,  in 
his  work  on  Tennyson,  p.  419,  “ is 
not  a narrative  of  years  and  of  many 
characters,  but  of  a single  day  in  the 
life  of  a man  and  his  wife,  and  of  a 
crisis  in  their  souls.”  The  poem  is  es- 
pecially entitled  to  the  name  “Idyl  of 
the  Hearth,”  being  an  affecting  recital 
of  the  ups  and  downs  of  domestic  life  in 
the  middle  classes.  The  kind-hearted, 
pious  wife  has  in  her  the  right  material 
for  a true  woman. 


NOTES . 


701 


Lucretius , p.  160. 

First  printed  in  Macmillan's  Maga- 
ne,  May,  1868;  included  in  the  Holy 
rail  vdtume,  1869.  In  Mrs.  Tennyson’s 
)urnal  for  1865  is  this  entry,  dated  Oct. 
h:  “ A.  read  me  some  ‘ Lucretius,’  and 
ie  ‘ 1st  Epistle  of  St.  Peter.’  (At  work 
; his  new  poem  of  ‘Lucretius’).”  As 
rst  printed  the  last  line  was : — 

“ Care  not  thou 

rhat  matters  ? All  is  over : Fare  thee 
well!  ” 

The  later  reading  (of  1869)  is  still  re- 
fined. 

At  the  time  the  poem  was  written  the 
aterialistic  teaching  of  the  Epicureans 
as  coming  into  favor  in  England.  Pro- 
ssor  Tyndall  was  one  of  its  new  expo- 
rts. The  Lucretian  doctrine  briefly 
ated  is  this:  “Atoms  wrought  on  by 
apulse  and  gravity,  and  excited  in 
l^ery  mode  to  cohere,  and  having  been 
ied  in  all  possible  aggregations, 
otions,  and  relations,  fell  at  last  into 
■,ose  that  could  endure .”  Given  atoms 
id  motion,  the  universe  was  the  result. 
Professor  Jebb  thus  comments  on 
,3nnyson’s  remarkably  successful  poem 
baling  with  the  philosophy  and  person- 
ity  of  the  Roman  poet-philosopher 
vho  lived  in  the  first  century  b.c.)  : 
Apart  from  its  artistic  qualities,  the 
>em  has  another  which,  in  a work  of 
®rt,  is  accidental, — its  historical  truth; 
iat  is,  the  Lucretius  whom  it  describes 
is  a true  resemblance  to  the  real 
icretius,  as  revealed  in  his  own  work; 
e picture  is  not  merely  a picture  but 
Tppens  to  be  a portrait  also.” 

Cf.  the  description  of  the  Lucretian 
Ads  (lines  94-100)  with  the  concluding 
Lssage  of  The  Lotos  Eaters  (p.  61). 

The  allusion  in  lines  120-22  is  to  the 
iyssey , XII.,  374-96.  According  to  the 
ory  in  Ovid’s  Fasti  it  was  King  Numa 
bo  “snared  Picus  and  Faunus”  and 
impelled  *hem  to  reveal  “the  secret  of 


averting  Jove’s  angry  lightnings.”  It 
is  needless  to  cite  instances  of  Tenny- 
son’s use  of  the  thoughts  and  imagery 
of  Lucretius’  great  poem  Be  Rerum 
Natura. 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington , p.  165. 

First  published  in  pamphlet  form  on 
the  morning  of  Nov.  18,  1852,  and  again 
in  1853  ; included  in  the  Maud  volume, 
1855.  The  poem  was  written  in  the  in- 
terval between  the  death  of  the  Duke 
(Sept.  14),  and  his  funeral  (Nov.  18). 
This  elaborate  ode  was  not  appreciated 
at  first,  but  Sir  Henry  Taylor  wrote  of 
it:  “It  has  a greatness  worthy  of  its 
theme,  and  an  absolute  simplicity  and 
truth,  with  all  the  poetic  passion  of 
your  nature  moving  beneath.”  Its  pa- 
triotic passages  especially  appeal  to  the 
national  heart  and  conscience. 


The  Third  of  February , p.  169. 

Contributed  to  the  Examiner,  Feb.  7, 
1852  ; included  in  the  Library  edition  of 
Tennyson’s  collected  Works,  1872.  This 
and  other  patriotic  poems  were  occa- 
sioned by  the  disturbed  political  condi- 
tion of  England  after  the  coup  d'etat  of 
Louis  Napoleon. 


The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade , 

p.  170. 

Contributed  to  the  Examiner,  Dec.  9, 
1854;  reprinted  (with  changes)  in  the 
Maud  volume,  1855.  A four-page  copy 
was  privately  printed  for  distribution 
among  the  soldiers  before  Sebastopol. 
The  famous  charge  took  place  in  the 
Crimean  War  (Oct.  25,  1854).  Says 
Waugh:  “ The  poem  has  become  almost 
too  popular  for  discussion  ; it  is  the  one 
stirring,  galloping  piece  of  energy 
which  all  shades  of  mind  and  sympathy 
«eem  admire  alike.” 


702 


NOTES. 


Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the 
International  Exhibition,  p.  171. 

Published  in  Frasers  Magazine,  June, 
1862 ; reprinted  in  the  Enoch  Arden 
volume,  1862.  The  ode,  with  music  by 
Sterndale  Bennett,  was  sung  on  the 
opening  day  of  the  International  Exhi- 
bition, May  1,  1862.  Cf.  V.  with  The 
Golden  Year  (p.  103). 

A Welcome  ty  Alexandra , p.  172. 

Printed  in  a four-page  pamphlet, 
1863;  republished,  with  changes  and 
additions,  in  the  Enoch  Arden  volume, 
1864.  The  poem  is  a heart-felt  welcome 
to  Princess  Alexandra,  of  Denmark,  on 
the  occasion  of  her  marriage  (March  7, 
1863)  to  Albert  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales. 

A Welcome  to  her  Royal  Highness , 
Marie  Alexandrovna,  Duchess  of  Edin- 
burgh, p.  172. 

Published  in  a four-page  sheet,  1874 ; 
also  printed  in  the  London  Times  on 
the  day  of  the  marriage  of  the  Russian 
princess  to  Alfred,  second  son  of  Queen 
Victoria.  The  lines  in  III.  beginning 

“ For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs 
that  swing,” 

contain  a favorite  and  oft-repeated  sen- 
timent of  Tennyson’s. 

The  Grandmother,  p.  173. 

First  published  in  Once  a Week,  July 
16,  1859  (with  a capital  illustration  by 
J.  E.  Millais) ; reprinted  in  the  Enoch 
Arden  volume,  1864.  Professor  Jowett 
quoted  a saying  of  an  old  lady,  “ The 
spirits  of  my  children  always  seem  to 
hover  about  me,”  which  so  impressed 
Tennyson  that  the  poem  (first  called  The 
Grandmother’s  Apology)  was  the  result. 

Northern  Farmer  {Old  Style), 
p.  177. 

Published  in  the  Enoch  Arden  vol- 
ume, 1864.  The  poem,  written  in  1861, 


is  imaginative,  though  founded  on  chai 
acter-studies  of  Lincolnshire  farmers. 

Northern  Farmer  ( New  Style 

p.  179. 

First  published  in  the  Holy  Grail  vol 
ume,  1869.  According  to  the  poet  hin 
self,  this  poem  was  suggested  by  th 
words  of  a rich  farmer  living  in  hi 
neighborhood,  “ When  I canters  m 
’erse  along  the  ramper  (highway) 
’ears  proputty,  proputty,  proputty. 
From  this  characteristic  saying  he  coi 
jectured  and  portrayed  the  man.  Th 
Lincolnshire  dialect,  which  Tennyso 
uses  so  successfully  in  this  poem  and  i 
the  Northern  Cobbler  and  the  Villa  i 
Wife,  he  learned  when  a boy,  by  hea 
ing  the  talk  of  farm  laborers  aroun 
Soinersby  and  Caistor.  Cf.  Jean  Ing 
low’s  High  Tide . 

The  Daisy,  p.  181. 

First  published  in  the  Maud  volum 
1855.  This  poem,  written  at  Edinburg 
in  1853,  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Tenn 
son  ; it  was  suggested  by  the  finding  < 
a daisy  in  a book,  the  flower  havin 
been  plucked  by  her  on  the  Splugen  ar| 
placed  between  the  leaves  of  a volun 
as  a memento  of  their  Italian  journe 
in  1851.  The  reference  in  the  twenty 
fourth  stanza  is  to  their  baby  son,  Ha 
lam  (born  in  1852).  The  measure  is  oi] 
of  several  that  Tennyson  invented.  “ l 
was  proud  of  the  metre  of  ‘ The  Daisj 
which  he  called  a far-off  echo  of  tl 
Horatian  Alcaic.” 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice,  p.  18 

Dated  January,  1854;  first  publish* 
in  1855  with  Maud.  Addressed  to  tl 
eminent  preacher,  F.  D.  Maurice  (180 
72),  leader  of  the  Broad  Church  Part 
who  concerned  himself  not  only  wi 
books  but  with  the  practical  interen 
of  English  workingmen.  In  his  liber 
views  on  religious  matters  Tennys< 
had  much  in  common  with  Mauric 


NOTES . 


703 


hose  essays  and  sermons  involved 
m in  some  fierce  controversies.  Stan- 
ds 4-7  describe  the  poet’s  new  home 
iar  Freshwater.  The  eighth  stanza 
uches  on  the  Crimean  War. 

Will , p.  183. 

First  published  with  Maud  in  1855. 
an’s  free-will  was  one  of  the  funda- 
entals  of  Tennyson’s  creed.  See  pro- 
,gue  of  In  Memoriam  and  CXXXI. 
).  522). 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz , p.  183. 
First  published  with  Enoch  Arden, 
164.  Written  while  the  poet  was  trav- 
ling  in  the  French  Pyrenees  in  1861, 
vercome  by  reminiscences  of  other  days 
hen  he  and  Arthur  Hallam  visited  this 
wely  valley  together  in  1830.  The  mis- 
ike  in  writing  “ two  and  thirty  years  ” 
iems  to  have  been  due  to  carelessness. 

In  the  Garden  at  Swainston , p.  184. 

First  published  in  Cabinet  edition  of 
ennyson’s  Works,  12  vols.,  1874-77. 
Written  at  the  home  of  Sir  John  Simeon, 
le  of  the  poet’s  dearest  friends,  who 
Jed  in  1870.  To  Lady  Simeon  he  wrote 
June  27,  1870),  “I  knew  none  like 
!im  for  tenderness  and  generosity,  not 
> mention  his  other  noble  qualities, 
ad  he  was  the  very  Prince  of  Cour- 
ssy.”  The  other  two  men  were  Arthur 
Jallam  and  Henry  Lushington.  Cf.  the 
ne 

t “ With  a love  that  ever  will  be  ” 
ith  the  last  line  of  Vastness  (p.  660) . 

The  Flower,  p.  184. 

[\  First  published  with  Enoch  Arden, 
164.  Described  in  Tennyson’s  manu- 
:ript  notes  as  “ an  universal  apologue.” 
ne  interpretation  was  to  the  effect 
dat  the  “ seed  ” was  a new  metre  of 
ennyson’s,  and  “ the  flowers  ” were 
ie  poems  of  his  imitators.  He  wrote  a 
tter  to  J.  B.  Selkirk,  saying  that  this 


was  not  the  right  explanation  of  the 
parable.  The  poem  seems  to  be  a met- 
rical paraphrase  of  the  quotation,  “ In 
this  world  are  few  voices  and  many 
echoes.” 

Requiescat , p.  184. 

First  published  with  Enoch  Arden, 
1864.  The  stanzas  recall  Wordsworth’s 
verses  on  “ Lucy,”  written  in  1799-1800 

The  Sailor  Boy,  p.  184. 

First  published  in  Victoria  Regia , 
Dec.  25,  1861 ; reprinted  with  Enoch 
Arden,  1864.  The  poem  well  expresses 
youthful  love  of  adventurous  activity 
and  dislike  of  indolent  ease. 

The  Islet , p.  185. 

First  published  in  the  Enoch  Arden 
volume,  1864.  Of  the  purpose  of  the 
poem  Luce  remarks:  “Dwelling  apart 
by  ourselves,  seeking  only  our  own 
happiness,  may  be  likened  to  solitary 
existence  on  a beautiful  island  in  the 
tropics;  when  the  real  work  of  life  is 
suspended,  where  the  only  music  is  the 
false  note  of  the  mocking-bird,  and 
where  loathsome  diseases  lurk  in  every 
profusion  of  loveliness.  Like  4 The  Voy- 
age,’ this  slighter  poem  is  an  occasion 
for  vivid  sketches  of  far-off  isle  and 
ocean.’  ” 

The  City  Child,  p.  185. 

This  and  the  companion  poem  (125) 
were  first  published  in  St.  Nicholas 
(February,  1880)  ; reprinted  in  the  col- 
lected edition  of  Tennyson’s  Works,  1886. 
These  “child-songs”  and  many  other 
lyrics  of  Tennyson’s  were  set  to  music 
by  his  wife. 

Minnie  and  Winnie,  p.  186. 

First  published  in  St.  Nicholas,  New 
York  (February,  1880) . The  same  maga- 
zine for  February  and  March  contains 
Mrs.  Tennyson’s  settings  of  the  two 
poems. 


704 


NOTES . 


The  Spiteful  Letter , p.  186. 

First  published  in  Once  a Week  (Janu- 
ary, 1868) ; reprinted  with  alterations  in 
Library  edition  of  Tennyson’s  Works, 
1871-73.  The  poet  wrote:  “It  is  no 
particular  letter  that  I meant.  I have 
had  dozens  of  them  from  one  quarter  or 
another.” 

Literary  Squabbles , p.  186. 

First  printed  with  the  title  After- 
thought in  Punch,} March  7,  1846;  re- 
published with  new  title  in  Library 
edition,  1872.  Throughout  his  long 
career  Tennyson  was  free  from  the 
petty  spites  and  jealousies  of  authors. 
Once,  in  1846,  he  deigned  to  reply  to  an 
attack  by  Bulwer,  but  he  regretted  the 
unauthorized  publication  of  his  satiri- 
cal verses  — The  New  Timon  and  the 
Poets  (in  Punch , March  7,  1846),  and 
in  this  second  poem  expressed  his  atti- 
tude of  indifference  and  silence. 

The  Victim , p.  186. 

First  published  in  Good  Words , Janu- 
ary, 1868 ; reprinted  with  the  Holy  Grail , 
1869.  Privately  printed,  1867. 

Wages,  p.  188. 

First  printed  in  Macmillan's  Maga- 
zine, February,  1868,  and  republished  in 
the  Holy  Grail  volume,  1869.  The  poem 
is  an  expression  of  Tennyson’s  passion- 
ate desire  for  personal  immortality.  Cf. 
Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After , lines 
67-72  (p.  642). 

The  Higher  Pantheism , p.  188. 
First  published  in  the  Holy  Grail  vol- 
ume, 1869.  The  poem  was  read  at  the 
first  meeting  of  the  Metaphysical  Society 
(June  2,  1869).  Mrs.  Tennyson’s  jour- 
nal for  1867  contains  this  entry  (dated 
Dec.  1st.)  : “ A.  is  reading  Hebrew  ( Job 
and  the  Song  of  Solomon  and  Genesis) : 
he  talked  much  about  his  Hebrew,  and 
about  all-pervading  Spirit  being  more 
understandable  by  him  than  solid  mat- 


ter. He  brought  down  to  me  his  psalm- 
like poem,  ‘Higher  Pantheism.’”  Sec 
Memoir , I.,  p.  514  (Reminiscences  by 
Allingham) . 

The  Voice  and  the  Peak,  p.  188. 

First  published  in  Cabinet  edition,  1874 
According  to  Luce  this  poem  “ is  anothei 
attempt  to  find  a voice  for  the  ineffable 
and  to  apprehend  the  infinite.”  Line 
describes  a torrent  in  Yal  d’Anzasca  ir 
the  Alps,  which  Tennyson  visited  ii 
September,  1873. 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall,  p.188 

First  published  in  Holy  Grail  volume 
1869.  The  meaning  of  these  verses 
which  show  Tennyson’s  interest  in  philc 
sophical  problems,  is  illustrated  b; 
Goethe’s  lines : — 

“ Wouldst  know  the  whole?  then  sea 
the  parts ; for  all 

That  moulds  the  great  lies  mirrore 
in  the  small.” 

Says  Leibnitz : “ He  who  should  kno^ 
perfectly  one  monad  would  in  it  kmv 
the  world,  whose  mirror  it  is.” 

A Dedication , p.  189. 

First  published  in  Enoch  Arden  vo 
ume,  1864.  A tribute  to  his  wife,  wl 
was  the  presiding  genius  of  the  Tenn; 
son  household  for  more  than  forty  year 
Edith,  in  Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Yea 
After , is  doubtless  another  name  f< 
Lady  Tennyson.  She  is  also  praised 
June  Bracken  and  Heather  (1892). 
his  mother  and  in  his  wife  Tennysc 
found  his  high  ideal  of  womanho< 
realized. 

Boadicea,  p.  190. 

First  published  with  Enoch  Arde 
1864.  An  experiment  in  a new  metric 
form,  “an  echo  of  the  metre  in  t 
‘Atys’  of  Catullus,”  written  in  1 SI 
The  poet  “ wanted  some  one  to  annotn 
it  musically  so  that  people  could  und< 
stand  the  rhythm.”  Queen  Boadic 


NOTES . 


705 


(d.  62  a.d.)  headed  an  unsuccessful 
revolt  against  the  Romans  in  Britain. 

Hexameters  and  Pentameters^ 

p.  192. 

First  printed  in  Cornhill  Magazine , 
December,  1863,  but  not  republished  in 
1864  with  the  following  experiments  in 
classic  metres  (136  and  137) ; restored  in 
collected  editions  of  later  years.  Cf . Ar- 
nold’s Lectures  on  Translating  Homer. 

Milton , p.  192. 

Printed  in  the  Cornhill  (December, 
1863),  and  later  in  the  Enoch  Arden  vol- 
ume, 1864.  See  notes  .of  Tennyson’s 
talk  on  Paradise  Lost , in  Memoir , II., 
pp.  518-23. 

Hendecasyllabics , p.  192. 

Printed  in  the  Cornhill  (December, 
1863),  and  later  in  the  Enoch  Arden 
volume,  1864.  A skilful  handling  of 
“ the  dainty  metre  ” of  Catullus  in  Eng- 
lish. Tennyson  expressed  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  graceful  Roman  singer  in 
Frater  Ave  atque  Vale  (p.  636). 

Specimen  of  Translation  of 
Homer’s  Iliad , p.  192. 

Printed  in  the  Cornhill  (December, 
1863) , and  later  with  Enoch  Arden , 1864. 
An  admirable  rendering  of  this  oft- 
quoted  passage.  “He’s  a wonderful 
man  for  dovetailing  words  together,” 
said  Carlyle  of  Tennyson,  whom  he 
begged  to  translate  Sophocles. 

The  Window , p.  193. 

Privately  printed  in  1867,  and  pub- 
lished with  alterations  in  1870;  after- 
ward republished  in  collected  editions  of 
Tennyson’s  Works.  The  Window  Songs 
call  for  no  special  comment.  A phrase 
in  the  preliminary  note  (dated  Decem- 
ber, 1870)  needs  explanation.  Mrs. 
Tennyson  writes  in  her  journal  for  No- 


vember 4:  “A.  did  not  like  publishing 
songs  that  were  so  trivial  at  such  a grave 
crisis  of  affairs  in  Europe,”  because  of 
the  Franco-Prussian  War;  hence  the 
words  — “in  the  dark  shadow  of  these 
days.” 

Idylls  of  the  King , p.  197. 

About  the  time  of  the  publication  of 
The  Holy  Grail  (1869)  Tennyson  said: 
“At  twenty-four  I meant  to  write  an 
epic  or  a drama  of  King  Arthur ; and  I 
thought  that  I should  take  twenty  years 
about  the  work.  Now  they  will  say  I 
have  been  forty  years  about  it.”  The 
Morte  d’ Arthur  of  the  1842  volumes  was 
a fragment  of  the  proposed  epic.  The 
earliest  of  his  published  Arthurian  poems 
was  The  Lady  of  Shalott  (1832),  de- 
scribed as  “ another  version  of  the  story 
of  Lancelot  and  Elaine.” 

Tennyson  was  familiar  with  the  history 
of  Arthur  through  the  books  of  Geoffrey 
and  Malory.  He  seems  to  have  got 
some  details  from  Ellis’s  Metrical  Ro- 
mances. He  made  no  exhaustive  study 
of  the  sources  of  the  Arthur  legend. 
Had  he  read  the  tales  in  the  Old  French 
of  Chrestien  de  Troyes,  the  Thornton 
Morte  Arthur e,  Sir  Gawayne , and  other 
Middle-English  romances,  he  would  have 
formed  a different  conception  of  “ the 
blameless  king,”  of  Gawain,  and  other 
knights  of  the  Table  Round.  Besides  the 
old  chronicles  and  romances,  he  found 
more  or  less  material  in  Celtic  myths 
and  traditions,  especially  the  stories  of 
the  Mabinogion , translated  by  Char- 
lotte Guest.  He  depended  for  much  upon 
his  own  imagination.  Says  Hutton  : “ In 
taking  his  subject  from  the  great  medi- 
eval myth  of  English  chivalry,  it  was 
of  course  open  to  Mr.  Tennyson  to  adopt 
any  treatment  of  it  which  would  really 
incorporate  the  higher  and  grander  as- 
pects of  the  theme,  and  also  find  an  ideal 
unity  for  a number  of  legends  in  which 
of  unity  there  was  none.” 

For  many  years  not  much  progress 
was  made  in  the  composition  of  Tenny- 


706 


NOTES . 


son’s  epic,  probably  because  of  Hallam’s 
death  and  other  circumstances.  After 
Maud  was  off  his  hands,  he  resumed 
work  on  the  subject  that  had  haunted 
him  and  wrote  Vivien  and  Enid  in  1856. 
In  the  summer  of  1857  these  two  idylls 
were  privately  printed,  with  the  title: 
Enid  and  Nimue;  or , The  True  and  the 
False.  It  is  said  that  of  the  six  original 
copies  only  one  is  now  in  existence,  that 
in  the  British  Museum.  There  is  an 
interesting  record  in  Mrs.  Tennyson’s 
journal  of  this  year:  A.  has  brought 
me  as  a birthday  present  the  first  two 
lines  that  he  has  made  of  * Guinevere,’ 
which  might  be  the  nucleus  of  a great 
poem.  Arthur  is  parting  from  Guine- 
vere, and  says : — 

“ ‘ But  hither  shall  I never  come  again, 
Never  lie  by  thy  side ; see  thee  no  more ; 

Farewell!  ’ ” 

In  the  winter  of  1858  Guinevere  was 
completed.  Then  Elaine  was  written, 
and  in  1859  these  four  Arthurian  stories 
appeared  with  the  title : Idylls  of  the 
King.  They  were  arranged  in  this 
order:  Enid,  Vivien,  Elaine,  Guinevere . 

Then  preparation  for  other  idylls  was 
begun,  but  the  undertaking  was  inter- 
rupted for  several  years.  The  poet  was 
urged  to  write  on  the  Sangreal,  but  was 
not  “ in  the  mood  for  it.”  In  1868  The 
Holy  Grail  was  written;  it  “came  sud- 
denly as  if  by  a breath  of  inspiration.” 
Others  followed,  and  in  1869  another 
instalment  of  four  idylls  was  published: 
The  Holy  Grail,  The  Coming  of  Arthur , 
Pelleas  and  Ettarre,  and  The  Passing  of 
Arthur.  Afterward  The  Last  Tourna- 
ment was  printed  in  the  Contemporary 
Review  (December,  1871)  and  repub- 
lished in  1872  with  Gareth  and  Lynette. 
A little  later  Balin  and  Balan  was  writ- 
ten, though  not  published  until  1885  in 
the  Tiresias  volume. 

Of  the  innumerable  changes  in  the 
text,  Professor  Jones  has  made  thorough 
study  in  his  Growth  of  the  Idylls  of  the 
King,  1895.  The  poet’s  last  correction 


was  made  in  1891,  when  he  inserted  the 
line — 

“ Ideal  manhood  closed  in  real  man  ” — 
in  the  Epilogue  after  the  line — 

“ New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war 
with  Soul.” 

The  most  important  addition,  lines  6-146 
of  Merlin  and  Vivien,  appeared  first  in 
1874,  with  a few  variations  from  the 
present  reading.  In  1888  Geraint  and 
Enid  was  divided  into  two  idylls,  with 
the  titles : The  Marriage  of  Geraint  and 
Geraint  and  Enid.  The  later  editions 
of  Idylls  of  the  King  have  ten  tales  in 
the  Round  Table,  or  “twelve  books,” 
including  the ‘introductory  and  closing 
idyls. 

The  Princess,  p.  381. 

While  at  Eastbourne,  in  the  summer 
of  1845,  Tennyson  was*  engaged  on  The 
Princess,  but  the  poem  was  mostly 
written  in  London.  Come  down , 0 maid 
(p.  435),  was  composed  among  the  Alps 
in  1846,  and  was  “ descriptive  of  the 
waste  Alpine  heights  and  gorges,  and  of 
the  sweet,  rich  valleys  below.”  The 
poet  told  Aubrey  de  Vere  that  the 
Bugle  Song  (p.  404)  was  written  at  Kil- 
larney,  and  0 Swallow , Swallow  (p.  406) 
was  first  composed  in  rhyme.  Con- 
cerning one  of  his  most  characteristic 
and  successful  strains,  that  Avonderful 
“ blank-verse  lyric  ” — Tears,  idle  tears 
(p.  405),  he  said:  “The  passion  of  the 
past,  the  abiding  in  the  transient,  was 
expressed  in  ‘ Tears,  idle  tears,’  which 
was  written  in  the  yellowing  autumn- 
tide  at  Tintern  Abbey,  full  for  me  of  its 
bygone  memories.”  In  the  manuscript 
the  first  line  originally  stood : — 

“ Ah  foolish  tears,  I know  not  what  they 
mean.” 

The  hand  of  the  artist  made  a happy 
change  to  “Tears,  idle  tears.” 

Possibly  the  first  hint  of  the  plot  wa* 
suggested  by  Johnson’s  Rasselas,  Chap 


NOTES. 


707 


XLIX.  However,  the  main  structure  of 
the  poem  was  essentially  original  with 
Tennyson.  Collins  pointed  out  a num- 
ber of  phrases  and  similes  that  sound 
like  echoes  of  older  singers.  Dawson 
calls  the  Princess  “ a transfusion  of  the 
Greek  spirit  into  modern  life.” 

The  first  edition  of  The  Princess  was 
a very  different  poem  from  that  of  1853, 
which  has  remained  unchanged.  The 
dedication  to  Henry  Lushington,1  in  the 
second  edition,  was  dated  January,  1848 ; 
but  few  alterations  were  made  in  the 
text  of  the  poem.  A number  of  addi- 
tions and  omissions  were  made  in  the 
third  edition  (1850) ; the  intercalary 
songs  were  inserted,  and  the  Prologue 
and  conclusion  were  revised.  In  the 
fourth  edition  (1851)  “ the  passages  re- 
lating to  the  weird  seizures  of  the 
Prince”  were  inserted.  The  fifth  edi- 
tion (1853)  contains  many  new  read- 
ings, also  lines  35-49  of  the  Prologue; 
this  is  the  final  text  of  the  poem. 

Maud , p.  440. 

The  nameless  stanzas,  0 that  ’ twere 
possible,  written  in  1834  and  printed  in 
the  Tribute  (1837),  later  became  the 
foundation  of  Maud.  As  the  poet  wrote : 
“ Sir  John  Simeon  years  after  begged  me 
to  weave  a story  round  this  poem  and 
so  ‘ Maud  ’ came  into  being.”  It  was 
thus  written  backward,  the  work  being 
chiefly  done  in  1854  and  1855.  In  the 
early  proofs  of  the  poem  the  title  was 
Maud;  or  the  Madness.  The  laureate 
remarked,  “ This  poem  is  a little  ‘ Ham- 
let.’ ” The  lyrics  in  it  which  he  liked 
best  were : I have  led  her  home ; Cour- 
age, poor  heart  of  stone ; and  O that 
’ twere  possible.  He  was  vexed  at  the 
hostile  reception  of  the  poem  on  the 
part  of  the  critics,  and  was  grateful  for 
the  defence  of  Dr.  Mann  and  for  the 
fine  commentary  of  Brimley.  With  the 
proceeds  of  the  sale  of  Maud  he  bought 

1 Park  House,  home  of  the  Lushingtons, 
near  Maidstone,  is  Vivian  Place  (referred  to  in 
the  Prologue). 


(1856)  Farringford,  which  had  been 
leased  in  1853. 1 

The  second  edition  of  Maud  (1856) 
contained  “considerable  additions,  ex- 
tending to  some  ten  pages.”  The  poem 
was  afterward  divided  into  two  parts, 
and  ultimately  into  three  parts.  Of 
section  IV.  (pp.  457-59),  contributed  to 
the  Tribute , Luce  remarks:  “The  stan- 
zas, as  they  originally  appeared,  formed 
a poem  of  strange  and  pathetic  beauty. 
A portion  of  them,  with  certain  altera- 
tions, now  constitute  the  fourth  section 
of  the  second  part  of  * Maud.’  ” 

Enoch  Arden , p.  463. 

First  published  in  1864  in  the  volume 
entitled  Idylls  of  the  Hearth.  The  poem 
was  first  called  the  Old  Fisherman.  It 
was  written  in  the  summer  of  1862,  and 
occupied  him  only  about  two  weeks  when 
once  started,  though  he  had  brooded 
on  the  subject  a long  while.  Tennyson 
got  the  incident  from  the  sculptor 
Thomas  Woolner.  Similar  stories  had 
been  told  in  Suffolk,  Brittany,  and  other 
places.  Here  was  a theme  well  suited 
to  his  powers,  one  that  took  him  into  a 
different  world  from  that  of  the  Arthu- 
rian idylls.  He  was  so  much  at  home 
in  the  society  of  humble  fisher-folk  that 

i A writer  in  Good  Words  (October,  1892) 
refers  to  the  beautiful  word-pictures  in  Maud 
of  the  sea  and  sky  as  observed  at  Farringford 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight:  “If  one  would  wish  to 
see  the  influence  which  the  island  has  had  on 
the  great  minstrel,  let  him  read  ‘ Maud,*  where 
its  magic  has  been  most  profusely  translated 
into  speech.  . . . Here,  too,  surely  is  the 
‘ little  grove  ’ where  he  sits  while 

‘A  million  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby- 
budded  lime ; ’ 

and  here  in  a gap  of  the  trees  one  catches  a 
gleam  of  white,  where 

* The  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a 
softer  clime, 

Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a crescent 
of  sea, 

The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of 
J the  land.1  ” 


708 


NOTES. 


he  fairly  won  the  title  bestowed  upon 
him,  “ The  poet  of  the  people.” 

Tennyson’s  treatment  of  the  subject 
is  considerably  different  from  that  of 
Adelaide  Procter’s  Homeward  Bound , 
first  published  in  her  Legends  and  Lyr- 
ics (1858).  A few  passages  in  Enoch 
Arden  bear  a striking  resemblance  to 
certain  stanzas  of  Miss  Procter’s  touch- 
ing poem,  which  is  the  brief  narrative 
of  a seaman  wrecked  on  the  Barbary 
coast  and  kept  in  bondage  ten  long 
years  in  Algiers,  who  is  freed  and  re- 
turns to  his  old  English  home  to  find 
his  wife  married  to  his  “ ancient  com- 
rade.” 

He  took  pains  to  be  accurate  in  de- 
picting the  ways  of  fishermen  and  in 
matters  of  local  color.  Mrs.  Tennyson 
wrote  to  Edward  Fitzgerald,  asking  a 
number  of  fishing  questions  for  Alfred’s 
benefit.  In  his  diary  the  poet  speaks  of 
meeting  the  eminent  botanist,  Joseph 
Hooker,  “who  told  me  my  tropical 
island  (in  ‘ Enoch  ’)  was  all  right ; but 

X in  his  illustrations  has  made  it 

all  wrong,  putting  a herd  of  antelopes 
upon  it,  which  never  occur  in  Poly- 
nesia.” 

When  the  poet  and  his  son  were  cruis- 
ing around  the  coast  of  Wales  in  the 
summer  of  1887,  they  ‘ ‘ landed  at  Clo- 
velly,  and  he  thought  it  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  places  he  had  seen.  It  re- 
minded him  of  Enoch  Arden’s  village, 
although  ‘ Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking 
had  left  a chasm’  was  not  true  of  Clo- 
velly ; he  did  not  think  of  any  particu- 
lar village  when  writing  the  poem.” 

On  the  coast  of  Cornwall  is  sometimes 
heard  that  strange  atmospherical  phe- 
nomenon, “ the  calling  of  the  sea  ” (men- 
tioned in  the  closing  lines  of  Enoch 
Arden).  “A  murmuring  or  a roaring 
noise,  proceeding  from  the  shore,  is 
sometimes  heard  at  the  distance  of  sev- 
eral miles  inland,  whereas  at  other 
times,  although  the  atmosphere  may 
appear  equally  favorable  for  transmit- 
ting sounds,  no  sound  whatever  from 


the  shore  can  be  heard  at  the  twen- 
tieth part  of  that  distance.”  (Edmunds, 
Land's  End  District , 1862‘,  p.  142.) 

In  Memoriam,  p.  480. 

The  few  lines  “ which  proved  to  be  the 
germ  of  ‘ In  Memoriam  ’ ” were  written 
late  in  the  year  1833,  a few  months 
after  the  death  of  Arthur  Henry  Hallam.1 
Sections  IX.,  XXX.,  XXXI./lXXXV., 
and  XXVIII.  were  evidently  jotted  down 
in  December  of  this  year.  These  manu- 
script poems  circulated  among  Tenny- 
son’s friends  and  were  much  admired. 

Professor  Edmund  Lushington  (the 
“true  in  word  and  tried  in  deed”  of 
LXXXV.),  who  was  with  the  Tennysons 
at  Boxley  during  the  holidays  of  1841, 
writes  that  “the  number  of  memorial 
poems  had  rapidly  increased  ” in  the 
autumn  of  that  year.  In  the  summer  of 
1845  he  visited  the  poet,  who  showed  him 
the  epithalamium  celebrating  the  mar- 
riage of  the  professor  and  Cecilia  Tenny- 
son in  1842  (pp.  522-23) . 

In  November,  1845,  Tennyson  wrote  to 
Moxon,  his  publisher:  “I  want  you  to 
get  me  a book  which  I see  advertised  in 
the  Examiner ; it  seems  to  contain  many 
speculations  with  which  I have  been 
familiar  for  years,  and  on  which  I have 
written  more  than  one  poem.  The  book 
is  called  4 Vestiges  of  the  Natural  His- 
tory of  Creation.’  ” Commenting  on  this 
passage,  the  son  says  (Vol.  I.,  p.  223)  that 
the  evolutionary  sections  of  In  Memo- 
riam , referred  to  here  by  the  poet,  had 
been  written  years  before  Chambers’ 
book  was  published  in  1844.  Possi- 
bly the  sections  meant  are  LIV.-LVI. 
(pp.  496-7),  and  CXVIII.  (p.  519). 

In  1891  the  poet  explained  the  allusions 
in  the  first  stanza  of  I., 

“ I held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 

To  one  clear  harp  with  divers  tones,” 

as  referring  to  Goethe,  whom  he  “ placed 

1 Alfred y Lord  Tennyson:  A Memoir  by 
his  son,  1897,  Vol.  I.,  p.  107. 


NOTES. 


709 


foremost  among  the  moderns  as  a lyrical 
poet,”  because  “ consummate  in  so  many 
different  styles.”  The  sentiment  in  the 
oft-quoted  lines, 

“ That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things,” 

occurs  in  the  West-Easterly  Divan , 

“ Die  to  the  old ; live  to  the  new ; 

Grow  strong  with  each  to-morrow,” 

and  in  other  works  of  Goethe’s. 

It  was  not  until  1848  that  Tennyson 
made  up  his  mind  to  print  the  Elegies , 
as  he  called  the  cantos  of  In  Memoriam. 
He  thought  of  entitling  the  new  poem 
Fragments  of  an  Elegy , and  sometimes 
called  it  The  Way  of  the  Soul.  Three 
sections  (printed  in  the  Memoir , I., 
pp.  306-7)  were  omitted  as  redundant. 
LIX.  was  inserted  in  1851,  and  XXXIX. 
in  1869  (in  the  Pocket-Volume  edition 
of  Tennyson’s  Works). 

The  first  Christmas  Eve,  mentioned  in 
XXVIII.,  was  December  25,  1833;  the 
second  (in  LXXVIII.)  in  1834,  and  the 
one  referred  to  in  CV.  was  in  1837. 
The  date  of  CVI.,  Ring  out , wild  hells , 
is  likely  about  December  31,  1837 ; and 
CXV.  probably  describes  the  spring  of 
1838.  XCVIII.  was  suggested  by  the 
wedding-trip  of  Charles  Tennyson  Tur- 
ner in  the  summer  of  1836 ; this  much- 
loved brother  is  the  “noble  heart”  of 
LXXIX.  The  anniversary  of  Hallam’s 
death  (September  15,  1833)  is  spoken  of 
in  LXXII.  and  XCIX.,  and  his  birthday 
is  remembered  in  CVII.  (February  1, 
1838).  The  dates  of  some  other  sec- 
tions may  be  conjectured,  but  not  with 
certainty.  As  to  the  metre  of  In  Memo- 
riam, the  poet  supposed  himself  to  be 
the  originator  of  it. 

The  Lover* s Tale , p.  525. 

A fragment  of  this  work  was  printed 
in  1832  (dated  1833),  and  a few  copies 
were  distributed  among  Tennyson’s 
friends  before  it  was  suppressed.  In 
1869  the  poem  (revised)  was  again  sent 


to  press,  and  for  some  reason  it  was  with- 
drawn from  publication  for  ten  years. 
In  1879  the  three  parts,  with  a reprint 
of  The  Golden  Supper  (published  in 
1869)  as  a fourth  part,  appeared  in  a 
small  volume.  This  boyish  production 
contains  many  quotable  passages,  some 
of  them  similar  to  lines  in  his  later 
works,  as  “ A morning  air,  sweet  after 
rain,”  suggesting  “ Sweet  after  show- 
ers, ambrosial  air  ” ( In  Memoriam , 
LXXXVI. ) . The  closing  lines  of  I.  recall 
Byron’s  poem,  Written  beneath  a Picture , 
“ ’Tis  said  with  Sorrow  Time  can  cope,” 
etc. 

The  First  Quarrel , p.  552. 

The  book  of  ballads,  of  which  this  is 
the  first,  appeared  in  1880,  addressed  to 
the  poet’s  first  grandson  (b.  1878) . The 
First  Quarrel  was  founded  on  a true 
story,  told  to  him  by  Dr.  Dabbs  of  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  “ A dreary  tragic  tale,” 
Carlyle  called  it. 

Rizpahy  p.  554. 

Of  this  powerful  poem,  which  is  based 
on  fact,  Swinburne  remarks:  “Never 
since  the  very  beginning  of  all  poetry 
were  the  twin  passions  of  terror  and 
pity  more  divinely  done  into  deathless 
words  or  set  to  more  perfect  and  pro- 
found magnificence  of  music.”  (. Miscel- 
lanies, 1886,  p.  219).  This  dramatic 
monologue  reveals  the  very  life  of  the 
rough  times  and  people  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

The  Northern  Cobbler , p.  557. 

This  characteristic  dialect  poem  is 
founded  on  an  incident  that  the  poet 
“ heard  in  early  youth.  A man  set  up 
a bottle  of  gin  in  his  window  when  he 
gave  up  drinking,  in  order  to  defy  the 
drink.” 

The  Revenge , p.  559. 

The  first  line  of  The  Revenge  lay  on 
Tennyson’s  desk  for  years,  then  “ he 


710 


NOTES. 


finished  the  ballad  at  last  all  at  once 
in  a day  or  two.”  He  read  up  about 
Grenville  in  old  histories  and  steeped 
himself  in  the  spirit  of  the  time  and  of 
the  valiant  seamen  whose  heroic  deeds 
he  celebrated  in  ringing  verse.  The 
poem  appeared  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, March,  1878 ; reprinted  in  Ballads , 
and  Other  Poems , 1880. 

The  Sisters , p.  562. 

The  plot  of  this  narrative-poem  is 
partly  founded  on  a story  that  the  poet 
had  heard.  Cf.  the  lines  which  “he 
would  quote  as  his  own  belief,” 

“ My  God,  I would  not  live 
Save  that  I think  this  gross  hard-seem- 
ing world 

Is  our  misshaping  vision  of  the  Powers 
Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 
our  gains,” 

with  the  parallel  passage  in  In  Memo - 
riam , LVI.,  stanza  7 (p.  497).  See  also 
The  Aneient  Sage , “And  we  the  poor 
earth’s  dying  race,”  etc.  The  songs  of 
Evelyn  and  Edith  recall  the  songs  in 
Shelley’s  Prometheus . 

The  Village  Wife , p.  567. 

“ Among  his  Lincolnshire  poems,” 
says  his  son,  “‘The  Village  Wife’  is 
the  only  one  that  is  in  any  way  a por- 
trait. The  rest  of  them  are  purely  im- 
aginative.” 

In  the  Children's  Hospital , p.  570. 

This  poem  was  based  on  a true  story 
told  to  Tennyson  by  Miss  Gladstone. 
He  says : “ The  doctors  and  hospital 
are  unknown  to  me.  The  two  children 
are  the  only  characters,  in  this  little 
dramatic  poem,  taken  from  life.” 

Dedicatory  Poem  to  the  Princess 
Alice , p.  572. 

First  published  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century , April,  1879.  The  Princess 


Alice  (1843-78)  was  “the  best  loved  of 
all  the  Queen’s  children.” 

The  Defence  of  Lucknow , p.  573. 

First  printed  with  Dedicatory  Poem 
(183)  in  the  Nineteenth  Century , April, 
1879.  Professor  Jowett  suggested  to 
Tennyson  that  recent  English  history 
in  India  offered  material  for  poetry,  and 
this  ballad,  celebrating  an  incident  of 
the  mutiny  of  1857,  was  the  result. 

Sir  John  Oldcastle,  p.  575. 

Lord  Cobham,  a prominent  leader  of 
the  English  Lollards,  was  put  to  death 
(1417)  for  alleged  treason  and  heresy. 

The  Voyage  of  Maeldune , p.  583. 

In  writing  this  poem  Tennyson  util- 
ized an  old  Irish  story  translated  in 
Joyce’s  Celtic  Romances , but  most  of 
the  details  were  his  own.  Says  Collins : 
“ He  has  dealt  with  it  in  the  same  way 
as  he  has  dealt  with  Malory’s  Morte  d ’ 
Arthur  in  such  idylls  as  The  Corning  of 
Arthur , deriving  from  his  original  little 
more  than  the  framework  of  his  poem.” 

De  Profundis,  p.  587. 

Published  in  the  Nineteenth  Century , 
May,  1880 ; reprinted  in  Ballads  and 
Other  Poems , 1880.  A brief  but  force- 
ful statement  of  Tennyson’s  mystical 
philosophy. 

Prefatory  Sonnet , p.  588. 

First  published  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, March,  1877.  This  sonnet  is  an 
expression  of  Tennyson’s  characteristic 
attitude  toward  doubt,  and  of  his  open- 
minded  search  for  truth. 

To  the  Rev . W.  II.  Brookfield , p.  588. 

Published  in  the  Memoir  of  Brookfield , 
1875.  William  Henry  Brookfield  (1809- 
74),  one  of  the  poet’s  intimate  friends  at 
Cambridge,  was  a,  noted  preacher  and 
educator. 


NOTES. 


711 


Montenegro , p.  588. 

First  published  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury-,  May,  1877.  This  fine  sonnet,  like 
that  on  Poland,  written  in  his  youth, 
shows  Tennyson’s  interest  in  the  cause 
of  freedom. 

To  Victor  Hugo , p.  589. 

First  printed  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, June,  1877. 

Achilles  over  the  Trench,  p.  591. 

This  blank-verse  translation  of  a 
spirited  passage  of  the  Iliad  appeared  in 
the  Nineteenth  Century , August,  1877. 

To  E.  Fitzgerald , p.  593. 

The  prefatory  lines  of  Tiresias,  and 
Other  Poems , 1885,  were  addressed  to 
the  poet’s  lifelong  friend,  the  scholarly 
translator  of  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar 
Khayyam.  Edward  Fitzgerald  died  in 
1883,  before  the  poem  was  published, 
and  his  death  called  forth  the  passion- 
ate cry  for  immortality  in  the  closing 
lines  of  the  poem  (p.  597).  Tiresias,  the 
blind  Theban  seer,  who  lived  before 
Homer’s  time,  is  celebrated  in  Greek 
legend. 

Despair , p.  601. 

Published  in  Nineteenth  Century , 
November,  1881 ; reprinted  in  the  Tire- 
sias volume,  1885.  The  poem  is  a pro- 
test at  once  against  extreme  Calvinism 
”‘nd  Atheism. 

The  Ancient  Sage,  p.  605. 

The  introspective  poet  of  The  Two 
Voices  has  grown  to  fuller  intellectual 
stature  in  The  Ancient  Sage,  which  con- 
tains a number  of  personal  touches. 
According  to  the  poet  himself,  “ * The 
Ancient  Sage  ’ is  not  the  philosophy  of 
the  Chinese  philosopher,  Laot-ze,  but  it 
was  written  after  reading  his  life  and 
maxims.”  Says  Tyndall,  “ The  poem 
is,  throughout,  a discussion  between  a 


believer  in  immortality  and  one  who  is 
unable  to  believe.”  The  point  of  view 
is  that  of  intuitional  idealism.  Cf.  the 
passage  describing  the  state  of  trance- 
consciousness  : — 

“ for  more  than  once  when  I 
Sat  all  alone,”  etc., 

with  In  Memoriam , XCV.,  stanzas  9-12. 
The  poet  finds  the  remedy  for  scepticism 
in  well-doing,  beneficent  activity  dull- 
ing the  edge  of  doubt. 

Balin  and  Balan,  p.  619. 

A prose-sketch  of  this  idyll,  dictated 
to  James  Knowles,  appeared  in  Nine- 
teenth Century , January,  1893.  The 
purpose  of  the  poem  seems  to  be  to  show 
the  gradual  development  of  the  powers 
of  evil  at  Arthur’s  court,  working  ill 
and  bringing  the  king’s  fair  hopes  to 
ruin.  The  time  is  the  eighth  year  of 
Arthur’s  reign  of  twelve  years. 

Prologue  to  General  Hamley,  p.  630. 

In  the  opening  lines  of  this  poem 
Tennyson  pictures  Aldworth,  his  sum- 
mer home  on  Blackdown  Heath,  in 
Sussex.  Says  Church,  “The  prospect 
from  the  terrace  of  the  house  is  one  of 
the  finest  to  be  found  in  the  south  of 
England.” 

The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade 
at  Balaclava,  p.  631. 

First  published  in  Macmillan9 s Maga 
zine,  March,  1882 ; reprinted  with  Tire- 
sias in  1885. 

To  Virgil,  p.  633. 

First  published  in  the  Nineteenth  Gen- 
toy,  September,  1882;  reprinted  with 
Tiresias,  1885.  There  is  an  excellent 
chapter  in  Collins’s  Illustrations  of  Ten- 
nyson comparing  Tennyson  and  Virgil. 
The  two  bards  have  much  in  common. 

Early  Spring,  p.  635. 

First  published  in  the  Youth's  Com 


712 


NOTES. 


panion,  1884 ; reprinted  with  Tiresias , 
1885. 

Prefatory  Poem  to  my  Brother’s 
Sonnets , p.  636. 

First  printed  in  Collected  Sonnets , Old 
and  New,  by  C.  T.  Turner,  1884.  A 
touching  tribute  to  this  brother,  who 
was  for  many  years  vicar  of  Grasby. 

“ Frater  Ave  atque  Vale  p.  636. 
First  published  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  March,  1883.  These  lines  on 
Catullus  were  composed  while  the  poet 
and  his  son  were  visiting  Italy  in  1880. 
They  passed  a delightful  day,  exploring 
the  groves  and  ruins  of  Sirmio,  the  home 
of  the  graceful  Roman  singer,  which  re- 
called to  memory  that  plaintive  strain  : 
Accipe  fraterno  multum  manantia  fletu, 
Atque  in  perpetuum,  frater,  ave  atque 
vale ! 

Helen’s  Tower,  p.  637. 

Lines  written  for  Lord  Dufferin  in 
1861,  and  afterward  printed  in  Good 
Words , 1884. 

Hands  all  round,  p.  637. 

Contributed  to  the  Examiner , Febru- 
ary 7,  1852. 

Freedom,  p.  638. 

Published  in  Macmillan’s  Magazine, 
December,  1884,  also  in  the  New  York 
Independent  for  1884;  reprinted  with 
Tiresias,  1885. 

Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After , 
p.  640. 

Published  in  1886,.  with  several  short 
poems  and  The  Promise  of  May.  Says 
H.  S.  Salt:  “ In  politics,  Lord  Tenny- 
son’s principles  are  distinctly  reaction- 
ary ; the  best  that  can  be  said  of  them 
is  that,  having  begun  as  a sham  Liberal, 
he  at  least  ended  as  a real  and  undis- 
guised Tory.  ’ ’ ( Tennyson  as  a Thinker, 


1893,  p.  28.)  There  is  some  foundation 
for  this  criticism.  As  Wilson  remarks, 
“ The  eager  impulse  to  advance  is  lost 
within  a growing  gloom,  as  the  wise  old 
poet  contemplates  a nation  fallen  on 
evil  days.”  (’Tis  Sixty  Years  Since, 

1894,  p.  26.)  Other  eminent  English* 
men  shared  this  distrust  of  Liberalism. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  public  men 
of  England  welcomed  the  change  to 
self-government  on  the  part  .of  the 
masses  of  the  workingmen,  who  were 
given  the  ballot  in  1885. 

The  Fleet , p.  648. 

Contributed  to  the  London  Times, 
April  23,  1885.  The  verses  are  in  keep- 
ing with  other  utterances  of  Tennyson’s, 
by  which  he  is  rightly  called  the  “ poet 
of  imperialism.” 

To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and 
Ava,  p.  649. 

Published  in  Demeter,  and  Other 
Poems,  1889.  These  stanzas,  in  the 
metre  of  In  Memoriam,  were  addressed 
to  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  in  apprecia- 
tion of  his  kindnesses  to  Lionel  Tenny- 
son, the  poet’s  youngest  son,  who  died 
of  jungle-fever  contracted  in  India  in 
1886. 

On  the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria , 
p.  650. 

Published  in  Macmillan’ s Magazine , 
April,  1887;  reprinted  in  the  Demeter 
volume,  1889.  Written  to  celebrate  the 
fiftieth  year  of  the  Queen’s  reign. 

Demeter  and  Persephone,  p.  652. 

First  published  in  1889.  In  dealing 
with  this  old  classic  legend,  Tennyson 
fully  equalled  the  beautiful  antique 
poems  of  his  early  years. 

Vastness,  p.  658. 

First  published  in  Macmillan’ s Maga- 
zine, November,  1885;  reprinted  in  th* 


NOTES. 


713 


p meter  volume,  1889.  A poem  that  re- 
ats  the  lyrical  triumphs  of  Tennyson’s 
lmiest  days. 

The  Ring,  p.  660. 

First  published  in  1889.  To  an  Ameri- 
n,  J.  R.  Lowell,  the  poet  was  indebted 
r the  strange  tale  related  in  this  dra- 
itic  sketch,  which  recalls  the  story  of 
\e  Sisters  (p.  562).  The  poem  shows 
3 drift  of  his  thinking  on  mystical 
bjects. 

To  Ulysses f p,  675. 

First  published  in  1889.  Addressed  to 
illiam  Gifford  Palgrave  (1826-88),  a 
ill-known  missionary  and  diplomatist, 
10  lived  many  years  in  the  East. 

The  Progress  of  Spiking,  p.  677. 

Of  this  poem  Waugh  writes : “ It  must 
ve  been  about  the  time  of  leaving 
mersby  that  Alfred  Tennyson  wrote 
3 ‘Progress  of  Spring,’  a poem  laid 
ide  and  forgotten  by  the  writer,  till 
turned  up  again  in  1888,  to  be  printed 
the  ‘ Demeter  ’ volume  in  the  follow- 
l year.”  ( Alfred , Lord  Tennyson , 
13,  pp.  74,  75.) 

Merlin  and  The  Gleam,  p.  679. 
The  poem  is  an  allegory,  containing 
brief  the  poet’s  literary  biography, 
s son  says,  “ From  his  boyhood  he 
d felt  the  magic  of  Merlin  — that 
rit  of  poetry  — which  bade  him  know 
; power  and  follow  throughout  his 
irk  a pure  and  high  ideal.” 

Romney's  Remorse,  p.  681. 

Che  poem  is  based  on  some  episodes 
the  domestic  life  of  the  renowned 
glish  painter,  George  Romney  (1734- 
)2).  After  his  marriage  to  Mary 
ibott  at  Kendal  (1756),  he  was  sepa- 
:ed  from  her  nearly  all  his  life  (except 
3 last  two  years). 

[n  old  age  the  poet  found  intense  de- 


light in  playing  with  his  grandchildren  ; 
and  when  eighty  “wrote  the  lullaby  in 
‘ Romney’s  Remorse,’  partly  for  his  little 
grandson  Lionel.” 

By  an  Evolutionist , p.  685. 

This  poem  and  Parnassus,  as  well  as 
other  pieces  ( published  in  1892) , indi- 
cate Tennyson’s  partial  acceptance  of 
the  evolutionary  theory.  See  closing 
stanzas  of  In  Memoriam  and  Maud,  Pt. 
I.,  IV.,  stanzas  4 and  6. 

The  Throstle,  p.  687. 

Published  in  the  New  Review,  Octo- 
ber, 1889;  also  printed  in  a number  of 
American  newspapers  the  same  year. 

Crossing  the  Bar,  p.  687. 

Of  this  beautiful  hymn,  that  has  sung 
its  way  into  the  hearts  of  thousands,  a 
fine  interpretation  is  given  by  R.  S.  Her- 
oes in  the  London  Times  (Oct.  31, 1892) : 
“The  goal  to  which  the  poet  wishes  to 
attain  is  obviously  the  open  sea  of  Eter- 
nal Life  after  crossing  the  bar  of  Death. 
The  poet  embarks  at  night,  the  night  of 
death,  following  on  the  day  of  life  on 
earth.  During  the  darkness  the  poet 
sleeps,  while  the  Pilot,  as  yet  unseen  by 
him,  watches  over  the  safety  of  the  ship 
and  conducts  it  safely  across  the  bar/ 
Cf.  In  Memoriam,  CXXXI.,  st.  3;  also 
epilogue,  st.  31. 


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